Dark Birthright
by malebron
Summary: When Julia discovers that the Muggle world is threatened by an ancient and terrifying evil, she seeks Albus Dumbledore's help. He sends her to 12 Grimmauld Place, where she has to persuade the enigmatic and troubled Sirius Black to help save the world. He just wants her to go away and leave him in peace, but she's got a job to do and she won't let a bad-tempered wizard bully her.
1. A Muggle in the Ministry

**A/N: This is a rewrite of _Dark Birthright_ which was first posted in 2014 and _Secret Life of a Black Dog_ which was first posted in 2015. The plot is the same but it has been fleshed out a bit and some background details have changed slightly. I think it's better now. I hope you do too.**

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 **Big thanks to Tara for beta reading and making many useful suggestions.**

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* * *

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Twenty-eight days had passed since Sirius had spoken to Harry. It had been twenty-eight days since Remus had fetched him, heart pounding with anxiety at the boy's unexpected appearance, in order to sacrifice his knees to the chill flagstones before his own kitchen range. Twenty-eight days—not that Sirius was counting of course—since he had seen the disappointment in the Harry's face and heard the hurt and accusation in his voice.

Had Harry understood in the end? They hadn't been bad lads, he and James. Cocky, yes; a little too full of themselves, he could see that now. Things had been easy for them and they had expected things would always be easy. That things would always work out. And now . . . James was dead, impossible as it was to quite believe even after all this time. Sirius himself was a shadow. So insubstantial that sometimes he was surprised anyone could see him at all. He avoided looking in most mirrors, fearing that one day even his reflection would have vanished.

Most mirrors; but not one particular mirror. Several times every day, Sirius looked into that one. Not for his own ravaged features, but for Harry. And always the thing was dark and empty. Perhaps he should have reminded Harry about it when he had the chance. But he hadn't done so, and Sirius supposed Harry had better things to do than talk to his godfather.

.

Buckbeak was an island of stability in the shifting emptiness, but even the hippogriff wouldn't be with him forever. Sirius's custodianship was a temporary arrangement that had already outlasted his obligation. The responsibility kept him functional after a fashion, but the beast's needs were basic, and it was resolutely uncommunicative.

Sometimes he woke shouting; in a bed or on a couch, or on the floor, or with his face pressed against Buckbeak's warm flank, feeling a fading sensation of a warm hand on his thigh or his back; of another heart beating next to his. In the moments of waking and the moments before sleep wrapped him in its uneasy embrace, the past seemed so close he could almost reach out and touch it. There it was. He and James. The glory days. They had been unbeatable, unbreakable, unstoppable. The bee's knees. The cat's whiskers. The dog's bollocks.

.

So much of the last fifteen years had been spent as a dog that sometimes he hardly knew his own shape or how many feet he had. As long as he was warm and fed, Padfoot was happy enough. He did not experience boredom or grief in the same way as Sirius. Did not dwell on his memories or hear the voice of his dead friend when the silences grew too heavy.

So each day in his dismal wreck of a house passed much like another. One by one they melded seamlessly together, and outside his house the sun rose and set, spring turned to summer and Harry kept on not looking in his mirror.

.

.

* * *

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Julia's office at the end of a neglected corridor behind the undistinguished Incidental Magic division of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes was tiny and insignificant. So much so that only a handful of people knew it was anything more than the cupboard it had once been.

On her desk was a little brass sign engraved with the words: _You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps._ She had given it to her brother when he started working for the Ministry and it was one of the few of his things she had kept after his death. She was finding the sentiment increasingly apt.

When she had first come to work there, her boss—perhaps embarrassed by the meanness of the space—had made a window for her. It showed a spectacular coastal view and every day it was different. Sometimes she even fancied she saw a little boat bobbing among the waves. But the outlook was dictated by her mood and today it was resolutely static: subdued into grey stillness as if in a heavy fog.

Gazing at the featureless window, she chewed her thumbnail pessimistically and pondered. Just in case some new insight might occur to her—despite having already treble and quadruple checked—she ran a finger down the side of the list written on the long, rather creased document on the table in front of her. From the first name at the top to the twenty-second at the bottom. Absently she tapped at it with her finger. That was where the problem was. That very last name. She drew a line underneath it with a marker pen, as if she needed to remind herself of what it said. It might as well be You-Know-Who himself for all the use it was.

With the exception of a few of the oldest and grandest families, Julia found wizards to be mostly unconcerned about their own history and utterly indifferent to Muggle history. This had often been a source of frustration to her, but at the moment it was a relief. She preferred not to draw attention to the fact that the tattered book she had been studying for several days was not, in fact, the volume of helpful housekeeping advice it appeared to be and therefore should not be in her office at all. Most certainly she should not be planning to take it home with her.

.

Snapping the cap securely on to her marker pen, she dropped it into her pocket then wrapped the fragile book in a cloth, eased it gently into her bag and squashed the untidy list in beside it. Then—leaving it unlocked, as she had never had a key for it and in any case doubted the contents would interest anyone else— she closed her office door behind her and made her way to a brighter, better-maintained corridor.

.

Two men followed her into the lift and stood behind her. She tensed but did not turn round, warily watching their distorted reflections on the polished surface. There was a faint movement of air as the taller of the two lazily waved the doors shut and sniffed as if he could smell something faintly unpleasant.

As the lift started to ascend, the other man slid his arm above Julia's shoulder and rested a hand flat against the wall in front of her. "Ah," he purred, "Arthur Weasley's pet Muggle. Julia, is it not? How delightful!" "I have, from time to time, wondered if what they say about Muggle women is true. Perhaps you can . . . ah . . . enlighten me?"

Julia shuddered. "Get lost, Yaxley."

"That will be Mr Yaxley to you, you little tart."

"Get lost, Mr Yaxley," said Julia obediently.

"Now don't be like that," said Otus Yaxley, blowing on to the back of her neck in a manner she found deeply unpleasant. "Some respect would not go amiss, little Muggle. You and I could have such a lovely time. I daresay I could show you a thing or two with my . . . um . . . _wand._ They are such very useful things. When it comes to, ah, _job security,_ for example. What do you say?"

The lift jerked to a halt at level six and Julia prodded at the button to open the doors. "I have, from time to time," she said, "wondered if it's true what the girls in Catastrophes say about the size of your . . . _little_ wand." She turned to him with a thin smile then switched her attention to the other man. "And it's a shame even wizards can't find a cure for male-pattern baldness, don't you think?" As if by accident she trod on Yaxley's foot as the door slid fitfully aside.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the other man's hand travel involuntarily to his long fair hair as Yaxley spluttered, "Did you hear what the Muggle bitch said to me, Lucius? Did you?"

.

The door to the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office burst open and her boss dashed out almost knocking her over. "Julia!" said Arthur with obvious relief, steadying her and picking up her bag. "I'm extremely glad to see you! We've a bit of an emergency, can you come along?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"No time to lose!" He waved his wand. " _Accio, overalls_!" and a garish orange boiler suit flopped out of his office and landed on the floor at his feet. With a grunt he bent down and picked it up. "It might be a bit on the large side, what do you think?" He shook it out and handed it to Julia.

She held it up under her chin doubtfully. "Um, I expect it will be all right."

"Excellent!" Arthur set off at a trot back towards the lift. "Come along!" he said. "Down to Transportation. We'll take a Ministry van."

He stopped suddenly as he was about to step into the lift and Julia bumped into him. "Oh crikey." He patted his robes and tutted. "Have you got your key?"

"Of course." Julia fished the heavy, old-fashioned key out of her jacket. "I still come into work that way sometimes. When I need the exercise."

.

Julia had never managed to get used to travelling in one of the Ministry's specially modified Muggle vehicles. She struggled into the voluminous garment, trying not to look too hard at where Arthur was taking the van, although, when he drove under a skip lorry, she squeezed her eyes shut and didn't open them again until he pulled abruptly to a stop, nearly jettisoning her from her seat.

They had arrived in a quiet road of modest, semi-detached houses. "This is the one," said Arthur, checking in a small notebook. "Number fifteen, Mr Meakin. Sneezing toilet." He looked at Julia and tutted. "Thought it might be a bit big. Better roll your sleeves up."

The garden path leading to the front of Number Fifteen, Sycamore Avenue, was lined with neat rows of sunny marigolds. A shocked-looking elderly man answered the door, He glanced at the ID card Arthur showed him. "It's sneezing!" He shook his head in disbelief. "My bloody toilet keeps sneezing! Am I going mad?"

Julia felt sorry for him. "Not to worry, Mr Meakin." She gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "Nothing we can't handle."

"When did the problem start?" asked Arthur.

"I suppose it was a couple of hours ago." Mr Meakin waved them through into his hallway. "Not long after those two very nice chaps from the Council were here. Fire safety officers. Do you know them? Very pleasant. Very helpful. Said my smoke alarm needed maintenance." He pointed up the stairs.

"Fire safety officers?" said Julia looking at Arthur who was frowning. "I don't think so."

"Well you're from the Council too, aren't you? You've the same identity cards. Marvellous what they can do now! Moving photographs. Who'd have thought!"

Inwardly, Julia winced. It had never occurred to her to vet what Arthur thought would be a convincing Muggle ID card. "Let's take a look at this toilet, shall we?" she said.

"Upstairs." Mr Meakin jerked his thumb. "You won't miss it."

She wrinkled her nose and followed the smell of sewage and the sound of wet, squelchy sneezing into the bathroom. The toilet appeared to be contracting itself ready for another explosion. "Stop it", said Julia firmly, "That's quite enough." She put her hand out and touched the porcelain, feeling a familiar static tingle as the magic dissipated. With a faint shift in pressure like an inaudible sigh, the thing relaxed back into its normal, non-magical state.

Satisfied, Julia washed her hands at the basin, and went in search of the smoke alarm, which she found fixed to the ceiling at the top of the stairs. It was humming faintly and pulsating with a green glow. Another half an hour, she estimated, and the thing would have exploded. She helped herself to a bedroom chair and stood on it to reach the throbbing plastic case with her index finger. With a little _pfft_ , it stiffened and the green glow died. After putting the chair back, she went downstairs and found Arthur and Mr Meakin in the kitchen drinking mugs of tea.

Mr Meakin seemed to have forgotten his earlier distress. "Well I never," he said lifting his mug in her direction. "A lady plumber! Whatever next?"

"Oh yes," agreed Julia sympathetically. "They'll let anyone do a City and Guilds these days, you know. It's fixed now." She lowered her voice and murmured to Arthur, "Could do with a bit of a clean."

Arthur disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, they chatted with Mr Meakin for a little longer, and when he got up to rinse the cups at the kitchen sink, Arthur waved his wand and murmured, " _Obliviate."_

Quietly, Julia and Arthur let themselves out.

"I suppose you have to do that," said Julia on the way back. "Only it seems a bit . . . brutal."

"What does? You mean the _Obliviation?_ " Arthur looked surprised. "It's what we've always done."His anxious gaze followed a fire engine as it raced across a junction and into a side street, siren squealing. " These are becoming more and more of a problem. It's getting out of hand. We're struggling to keep up and I'm still not a hundred percent."

He did look a little pale and thinner than usual after an unexplained sickness had kept him away from the Ministry for several weeks in the New Year. There had been rumours of a snake attack and Death Eaters but Julia didn't know if they were true, and did not like to ask. "Thanks for helping out," he said. "It's always quicker when you do it. I'll drop you off at home, shall I?"

"Yes please," she said, getting tangled up in her overalls as she tried to extricate herself. "I need to talk to you about something. Can I come and see you tomorrow?"

"Of course, my dear, whenever you like. I look forward to it."

0.

London bustled as it always did in the warm early evening sun. Julia smelt frying onions and garlic and curry; heard the closeness of her neighbours in the flats to each side; in the two storeys above her and two below. Their footsteps and voices and crying babies; the clatter of pans and the distant repetitive thud of music played too loud. How could all those people have no inkling of how fragile their lives were? How vulnerable and close to disaster.

She watered the pot plants on her balcony and stood for a while watching children playing in the park below. Their high voices carried on the air, full of life and energy.

As the outside air cooled and the sky darkened, the starry nicotiana plants began to release the scent they had been saving for night-time. The children in the park were replaced by the evening shift of sweary youths with cans of cheap cider and cigarettes and an excess of hormones. She emptied her bag and put the book and list on the kitchen table beside a rare copy of _The Black Death in Europe and Great Britain,_ which she had borrowed, via a complicated inter-library lending scheme, from the British Library. It lay open on a graphic drawing of plague victims; men, women and children lying dead and abandoned on a medieval city street. She shivered and closed the book, then shut all her windows securely as if by doing so she could insulate herself from danger.

Lying sleepless in the cold space of the hour before daybreak, she stared up into the darkness listening to the steady thump of her own heartbeat and seeing the image from the library book. There might be worse ways to die, but at the moment she couldn't think of any. Muggle medicine had moved on tremendously of course. Surely nowadays there would be a cure? But then there were so many more people altogether, and they moved around so much she thought fretfully. Perhaps she could run away. Find a remote spot in the hills somewhere. Live in a tent.

Although the notion had taken her as far as buying a hurricane lamp and a bottle of paraffin a few days before, she had felt rather silly for doing so and shoved them away at the back of the cupboard under the sink. It was an impractical fancy not a feasible plan. She would starve or freeze. And anyway: what would be the point? She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing.

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* * *

It was not one of her regular days for working at the Ministry but she headed there next morning and went straight to Arthur's office. His door was ajar and she knocked and poked her head hopefully into the room.

"Julia, my dear!" Arthur beckoned her in. "Thanks again for your help yesterday. Sit down. Tell me, how are the new mobile fellytones coming on? And the outernet? I'm just dying to have a go!"

She laughed. "Telephones, Arthur. And internet. They're getting very popular. I think almost everyone will be using them soon." Julia had a strong suspicion that Arthur's apparent foolishness was an act so well-practiced, it had become a habit. He was a far shrewder man than many took him for. And he was kind. Deeply, genuinely kind.

He waved her into a chair. "You didn't come to talk about tele-fellytones did you?"

Julia shook her head. "I'm really concerned about something, and I'm afraid it's about to become rather urgent." She rubbed her knees nervously. "I know you've more than enough problems at the moment with—well, everything that's been going on, but I'm worried and I need your advice."

"Go ahead," he said. "How can I help?"

"I don't know if you're familiar with _Of Majicke in ye Tyme of Plesance_?"

"My goodness! I haven't looked at it since I was at school and that was more years ago than I care to recall."

"I only know it," said Julia, "because I helped Ben revise it for his N.E.W.T.s. There's a bit in the section about Blood Magic. She fished a piece of paper out of her pocket. It goes: _And so it came to pass that one particular man; a wizard of moderate powers but of great hubris and ambition; proud and ruthless, took the long journey to the East and brought back to the land of his children that which, after his name, came to be known as the Black Death."_

"I vaguely remember," said Arthur. "But why is that worrying you?"

"I think . . . there might be more to it."

"Then you'd better tell me what's on your mind."

A little while later Arthur's normally affable manner was edged with anxiety. "This is very worrying, but it's considerably beyond my experience. I want Kingsley to hear what you have to say. Will you wait here while I find him?"

While Arthur was gone, Julia studied his comfortable office. It was painted a delicate shade of mauve and two squashy armchairs patterned with pink cabbage roses sat on a hairy orange rug. The window showed a tall, crooked, hotch-potch of a house set among swelling green hills tinged gold by the sun. Fluffy clouds rolled across the blue sky.

On his desk was a photograph of a laughing group of several red-headed youths, a skinny girl with bushy hair and big teeth, and a lad with dark, untidy hair and glasses. She recognised him; Harry Potter: the famous _Boy who Lived_. In the background of the picture were tents and banners. She wondered where it had been taken.

A few minutes later, Arthur returned, looking relieved. "Luckily, Kingsley can spare us a few minutes. He'll be here any moment. Will you have a cup of tea?" He waved his wand and a tea tray rattled through the door leaving a trail of drips on the floor underneath. "I thought English Breakfast and ginger nuts today, does that suit?"

"Lovely," Julia agreed. While they dunked their biscuits companionably and waited for Kingsley, she asked about the photograph.

"Yes, that's Harry,' said Arthur waving at it with a biscuit. "With Hermione Granger and my children at the Quidditch World Cup last year. It seems a lifetime away now. So much has happened since then." He paused in thought and his soggy biscuit disintegrated into his cup with a plop. "Oh no! Look what's happened now! He tried without success to fish it out with a spoon. "That's the trouble with these. Tell me, my dear, how do you Muggles avoid this?"

"The timing is important," said Julia, "but the trick is in the wrist movement." She demonstrated. "Magic won't help with this. You have to get it just right."

Arthur watched closely. "I think you're teasing me," he said at last.

"Of course I am," said Julia popping the last morsel in her mouth.

They both started at a single sharp knock at the door. Before Arthur could reply, Auror Shacklebolt swept in, his peacock-blue robes shimmering gloriously. He carried a distinct air of authority and feeling intimidated and rather untidy, Julia stood up, brushing crumbs off her chest.

"I'm pleased to meet you at last, Julia." Kingsley took her hand in a swift, firm grip. Motioning for her to be seated again, he pulled a chair round to face her and sat down himself, smoothing out his sleeve with an unhurried movement. "Arthur has told me something of your concerns, but can you explain again for me, please?"

A short time later, Kingsley's dark eyes had narrowed with anxiety. He rested his chin thoughtfully on his steepled fingertips. "I see no reason to doubt your conclusions, Julia. But there is only one person I know of who can advise you on this, and he is—in a manner of speaking—lying low at the moment. I am sure he will want to discuss this with you, so I will arrange a meeting. I suspect time is of the essence. Can you be available tomorrow?"

.


	2. A Meeting with Professor Dumbledore

.

Julia was tucked into a shady alcove in the _Dog & Ferret_, sipping at a half of bitter when Professor Albus Dumbledore arrived for their arranged meeting. She knew what he looked like, of course, but was not quite prepared for the dapper fellow wearing a yellow tweed three-piece suit with purple buttons. He had a crooked nose, piercing blue eyes behind half-moon glasses, and the longest beard she had ever seen.

"You must be Julia." He presented himself to her with a flourish, sweeping his fedora into an elegant bow.

"Professor Dumbledore." Julia stood to greet him. "How do you do?"

"Call me Albus, please. I feel 'Professor' is more suited to my students and ex-students, and of course—rather regrettably perhaps—you are neither."

"Let me get you a drink," said Julia, keen to forestall him going to the bar. His idea of casual Muggle clothing held a hint of eccentricity and she preferred to avoid drawing attention. She waited a little anxiously as he made himself comfortable, relieved to see that he appeared quite at home in Muggle surroundings.

.

Albus sipped at his beer with appreciation. "Ah, most welcome." He sucked froth off his moustache and smacked his lips. "So, my dear, tell me about yourself."

"Don't you know about me already?" Julia asked.

He peered at her over the top of his spectacles. "Perhaps," he said, "although no-one knows _all_ about anyone else. I do know that you have been working in the Ministry for several years and Arthur speaks very highly of you."

"That's nice of him," Julia said. "He's been very good to me. You know the Ministry has been keeping me busy recently, researching the family histories of wizards suspected of being Muggle-born? I'm conscious of how ironic it is that the Ministry is employing a Muggle to do such work. I'm fairly certain they haven't realised." She bit her lip. "Prof—Albus. You know how I came to be aware of the wizarding world and able to move between the two worlds as I do?"

Albus nodded. "I remember your brother very well. He was a good student and I had great hopes for him. But why don't you tell me your story for yourself?"

"Yes", said Julia. "He was a good student and he grew to be a good man too. I adored him and I miss him every day." She swallowed. "Sorry. Even after all this time it's difficult to talk about."

The professor patted her hand. "They live on in our memories, Julia."

"You—" she looked into her glass. "The wizarding world, that is—closed your doors to me. All except Arthur. He was the only one of you who kept in touch."

"My dear, it was a perilous time. We could not even manage to keep our own people from harm. You were safer in your own world."

"Perhaps." Julia circled the top of her glass with a finger. "I was lost for a while. I wasn't very close to our other relatives. After school I went to university and studied history. When I graduated, Arthur asked if I would like to come and work for the Department of Muggle Studies for a day or two a week. We found I was quite good at sorting out some of the problems that cropped up from time to time with enchanted Muggle artefacts. I think I have been quite useful to the Ministry over the last ten years or so. And I have some freelance research work of my own as well. In a way that's what I want to talk about." She stopped and sipped at her drink. A blue haze of cigarette smoke drifted lazily in the sunlight.

"Julia, pardon me," said Albus, swallowing the last mouthful of his beer. "Sometimes, as they say, walls have ears, and I think our conversation may be better kept private. The weather is clement; shall we take a walk?" He stood and offered her his arm in a courtly manner. Delighted by his old-fashioned gallantry, Julia looped her own arm into his.

They left the pub and strolled a few hundred yards to a small park with a duck pond where they made themselves comfortable on a bench, enjoying the warm breeze. For a little while, they watched the world go by.

"It is such a delicate thing, is it not?" he said.

"I know what you mean," she agreed, "It all hangs by a thread, and no-one really knows how tenuous it all is until the thread . . . snaps."

"About ten days ago"—she continued her story—"a patch of derelict land at the side of a small block of shops began to collapse. The council made an emergency inspection and observed traces of structures under the ground surface. As a precaution the site was secured and the nearest buildings evacuated until archaeological investigations could be carried out. In this case it is probably a good thing that bureaucracy makes the process so slow. But the excavation is due to start in just under three weeks." She looked at the professor. "And that's why I'm so worried."

"I think you had better tell me more."

"It's normal," said Julia, "to establish what the previous use of these sites was before any excavations begin. In case of potential contamination or bombs and things from the War. So when I was approached to do the research, I thought nothing of it. I began as usual but I hit something of a problem straight away. The place didn't appear on any maps or in any records before the 1950s, by which time the area was already derelict. I had to go back a very long way to find anything. Back to 1666 in fact. And that was when I came across a single mention of the destruction of St Wergrim's Abbey."

"Ah." Albus tugged thoughtfully at his beard.

"You've heard of it?" she asked.

"Oh, yes indeed."

"It rang a bell for me too. At first I couldn't recall where I had heard of it, but a couple of days later it came to me. When I was at university, one of my assignments had been to study the diaries of Samuel Pepys. I had assumed all of them had been transcribed, but when I was looking at the originals, I found a number of unrecorded entries. I transcribed them myself and submitted the work to my tutor. Initially, he was rather excited, but after he went to verify my findings for himself, he seemed to forget all about it, and when I reminded him, he became confused and dismissive. I was a bit hurt, but I didn't press the point. Then when I asked the other students who had been working on the same material, none of them knew what I was talking about. I began to think I had dreamed it so I asked someone else to take a look. But they just—couldn't! Their attention constantly shifted away, and as soon as they stopped looking at it, they forgot about it completely. That was when I realised there must be some sort of charm on it."

"Indeed," said Albus, "it sounds like a Muggle Misdirection Charm."

"Is that what it is? I supposed it didn't really matter. I couldn't see who would have placed a charm on that part of the diary though."

"Ah, Pepys himself, I should think."

Julia gaped at him. "Samuel Pepys was a _wizard_?"

"Certainly," said Albus. "But sadly notorious for his lack of discretion when it came to his dealings with Muggles. And of course his wife was a Muggle too."

Julia shook her head in resignation and carried on. "Pepys had written about a friend of his; a man called Malfais. The entries were short but intriguing. He believed that Malfais was responsible for deliberately causing the Great Fire of London."

"Ah." Albus gave a long sigh. "So that's what happened. _Fiendfyre_ I presume? I had suspected something of the sort."

"Yes. He wanted to destroy his family home—Black Court—and the nearby St Wergrim's Abbey. Malfais had written an account of his family history which he—Pepys, that is—had hidden, because he thought it was dangerous. But I couldn't find any record of Malfais ever having existed, even though it happened before the Statute of Secrecy was established. Nor were there any records of the Black family. It seems all trace of them and of Black Court and St Wergrim's were obliterated by the fire." Julia stopped. The professor watched her, waiting.

"The work the Ministry has been giving me lately," she said, "has meant I've been spending a lot of time in the archives. Mainly I'm digging out old legal documents and family records. Births, marriages and so on. But about a week ago, quite by accident, I found Malfais' account tucked away with a bunch of old house-elf indentures and household management books. If this business hadn't been fresh in my mind, I probably wouldn't have looked twice at it but, well . . . When I had read Malfais' book, I was shocked. It looked like the ramblings of a madman and I hoped it was but it reminded me of something I'd read in one of Ben's books years ago. I needed to be sure. That was when I began to research more deeply. I took advantage of the opportunity to look further into the Ministry archives. What I found seemed to verify his story."

Albus interrupted. "Julia, is it possible for me to see some of this material?"

Julia felt herself colouring. "It is, yes," she said. "In fact I have, er, borrowed Malfais' book. If anyone finds out, I'll probably never work again. It's at my flat. Would you care to join me for dinner?"

"That is most kind of you," Albus beamed. "I would be delighted." He stood and offered his arm again. "Shall we proceed?"

.

* * *

.

Julia unlocked the door of her flat and ushered Albus inside. After making a pot of tea and leaving it to brew, she cleared a space on her small table and laid out the fragile volume, her notes, and a shabby book with a drab leather cover. "This was Ben's," she said. "The one that I remembered when I looked at Malfais' account."

Albus picked up the slim leather-bound book and nodded. "A much underused resource these days," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down.

"You'll need some time," said Julia "I'll go and make something for us to eat. I hope you find I'm wrong."

Albus sighed. "I'm afraid you are probably right. But yes, a little time to concentrate would be much appreciated."

Julia poured the tea and then left him examining the papers. As unobtrusively as she could, she boiled some new potatoes, picked a few sprigs of mint from one of the pots on her balcony, mixed a little French dressing up in a wine glass, then made a bowl of salad and an omelette.

They ate the simple meal in silence, then Albus leaned back in his chair and polished his spectacles on a handkerchief. "I am afraid that your conclusions are perfectly correct. You have provided me with compelling evidence to prove a theory I have held myself for many years. The question now, is what can we do about it? I rather think that doing nothing is not a reasonable course of action."

"Um . . . _we?_ " She faltered. "With respect, Albus, I don't think I can be much more help to you. I rather thought I had done my bit."

"Unfortunately, Julia, your part in this business has barely begun. Had you considered the consequences if this knowledge got out to—certain parties?"

Julia blanched. "You mean . . . _You-Know-Who_?"

Albus looked sombre. "Yes I do. What do you think he would make of this?"

She closed her eyes in distress. "It would win his war for him practically overnight. He wouldn't need to do a thing."

"Quite so. You are, I feel, the best placed person to undertake this task. In addition to a useful degree of anonymity, you have the great advantage that no one currently wishes to send you to Azkaban. Are you able to take a leave of absence? We only have a couple of weeks in which to act."

"I'm afraid that might be rather difficult," she said, knowing she sounded feeble.

"I am sure Arthur can spare you from the Ministry," said Albus gently. "Are you in the middle of an important project in your Muggle work?"

Reluctantly, Julia shook her head.

"Do you have a husband? Children? Dependent relatives?"

She shook her head again.

"Well then," said the professor, beaming. "That is settled! I know where you must begin your search. I believe you will find help there, although I must warn you, it may not be offered readily. I am going to send you to the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. You have heard of the Order?"

Julia felt sick. She opened her mouth to speak but managed only a faint croak. She swallowed a couple of times and tried again. "You know I have. It doesn't exist anymore."

Albus was solemn. "In times of need the Phoenix will be reborn from the ashes of those who have gone before."

"The _ashes?_ " Julia did not try to keep the bitterness from her voice. "Is that what they are?"

"My sincere apologies, Julia" said Albus. "I did not mean to appear insensitive. I wonder if you have a piece of paper?"

"Yes, of course." She tore a blank page from her notebook and passed it to him.

He drew an old fashioned quill from inside his yellow waistcoat, and apparently without need of ink, wrote something on the paper then folded it in half and gave it back to her. "Present yourself at that address tomorrow evening at dusk and read the whole of what it says. When you have been admitted to the house you should destroy this note, preferably by burning it. I'm sure I need not tell you that discretion is essential. You may find your initial welcome less than warm, but persevere, Julia, it will repay you in the end. What you need is there, though I have no doubt it will require significant effort on your part, and may not take a form you expect. You will of course be at liberty to come and go as you please. I think it unlikely that you will attract any attention from the Ministry because . . . ah—"

"Because I'm a Muggle, and not worthy of notice?"

"Quite so. I assure you, Julia, that not all wizards are so arrogant or foolish." He tucked his quill into his robes and stood up. "I must be on my way. I will offer a word of advice, however. Do not trust the house elf. He is more cunning than he seems; treat him with extreme circumspection. The other inhabitants of the house, you may entrust with your life if necessary. Good luck." He shook her hand. "I feel sure we will meet again soon."

 _A house elf?_ she thought in amazement. _I didn't think anyone had those anymore! What sort of place is he sending me to?_

 _._


	3. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place

.

"Sirius. _Sirius!"_

Someone was shaking his shoulder. As the action became more insistent and annoying, so did the voice. " _Sirius!_ For Merlin's sake, wake _up_!"

Aggravated, he swatted blindly at the arm shaking him.

"Right, that's it!" The voice had become loud by this time. Shrill, in fact. Female—definitely female; and very cross. A sensation of icy cold enveloped him.

 _Dementors,_ he thought for a split second, and raised his head in weary hopelessness. He wiped his eyes. Had he been crying again? His vision was blurred, but whatever the amorphous shape before him was, it was not a Dementor. He focused. It was a bucket. The same old enamel one, he thought, that usually lived on the floor by the kitchen sink. Behind it was an angry-looking red-headed woman.

"Molly? What the—" he squeezed his wet beard. "Did you just throw a bucket of water over me?"

"Yes, Sirius, I did. Will you pay attention? I've got something important to tell you. Are you listening?"

"Urgh, no," he grunted. "Bugger off."

Molly's voice was stiff with annoyance. "Someone is coming here to the house later on today. A woman. Her name is Julia, and Albus has asked her to come. I don't know what she is supposed to be doing here, but apparently it's got something to do with you. Will you give her this note when she gets here?" She placed a folded square of parchment in front of him on the kitchen table. "Please?"

He viewed it with disinterest and did not bother to pick it up.

"Perhaps you can remember who you are, Sirius," said Molly coldly, "and make an effort to be civil when she arrives. I have made a bed up in the room that Harry and Ron used at Christmas." She leaned towards him and poked him in the chest. "Have you got that?"

"Every word," lied Sirius.

Molly folded her arms and scowled at him. "You need a wash. You smell disgusting." She cupped his chin and firmly turned him to face her. He peered back wondering why his kitchen was foggy. Her expression softened.

Sirius did not know what Molly had seen that made her look so bloody sorry for him, but he knew he never wanted anyone else to see it.

"You can't go on like this, you're killing yourself!" There was despair in her voice. "You've got to sort yourself out, Sirius. For Harry, if nothing else. Think of James!"

 _Bossy bloody woman,_ he thought wearily. Surely she knew he hardly thought of anything else. He laid his cheek back on the table and closed his eyes with relief. Anyway, Harry was taking exams at the moment. He would not see him for weeks.

.

.

At some point during the day, he must have moved from the kitchen to the drawing room, because when he woke later on, his face lay in a wet patch on the perished velvet of a chaise-longue. It was getting dark, his mouth tasted vile, and his head ached. What had woken him?

He was startled by a clatter a few feet away. Someone was throwing stones outside. _James?_ Another rattle accompanied by a rumble of thunder brought him to his senses and he staggered over to the tall window and looked out. After a warm day, the evening sky was heavy with clouds. A trickle of rainwater oozed under the sash and dripped on to the warped parquet floor. He was supposed to be doing something, he knew he was. But he could not for the life of him recall what it might be.

.

* * *

.

"It's the Russians," said the cabbie. "Them satellites. Buggering the weather." He jerked his thumb skywards to where bilious yellow clouds were fermenting a summer thunderstorm.

"Is it?" asked Julia.

"And immigrants."

"Really," said Julia

"Not that I'm racist," he clarified.

"Oh no," she agreed. "Perish the thought."

"Maggie Thatcher," he said. "She 'ad the right idea."

"Did she?"

"Bloody unions," he said. "Bloody immigrants."

.

Julia squinted through the rain streaming down the cab windows, losing her bearings in the residential streets of N19. She regretted not having had the foresight to bring an umbrella, having succumbed to a peculiarly English misplaced optimism, which assumed that two sunny days heralded a heat wave. The cab slowed and turned on to a tree lined avenue. They passed a small cluster of shops and a park with green metal railings.

The cabbie drew to a halt at the kerb. "Drop you 'ere on Grimwell Road, darlin'." He indicated the end of a narrow street lined with tall terraced Victorian town houses. "It's a dead end down there. Seven quid," he added.

Uncharacteristically nervous, Julia climbed out into a sudden squall and squeaked in discomfort as a cold trickle of rain ran under her collar and down her back. An enamel sign, rusted at the edges was nailed to the end wall of the terrace. It said: _London Borough of Islington, Grimmauld Place._ Some wit had spray-painted the middle 'm' out so it said _Grim auld Place_ , and indeed the street did seem particularly unwelcoming. Yellow lights showed in the windows of a few of the houses. Others were in darkness. She picked her way along the wet pavement through the debris of takeaway wrappers and dog mess.

Although the light was poor, a tingle at the back of her neck told her she was close to where she wanted to be. She stopped and peered at the number on the door of the nearest house. Ten. Then eleven _._ She paused, blinking. For a second she thought she had seen the shadow of another house next to it, but nothing was there. Except— With a sense of inevitability, she pulled Albus's note from her damp pocket and unfolded it. Looking about to make sure no one was near, she shone her small torch on the paper and read out what he had written. " _The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place."_

She had thought she was prepared, but the breath left her lungs in a rush as a tall town house appeared before her, squeezing itself out between the two buildings on either side. Once it had been a handsome, well-proportioned residence, but now it loomed wretched in its decaying splendour. A movement behind one of the blank upstairs windows caught her eye. Was someone in there?

Albus had not given her any instructions for what to do when she arrived at the house. Shaking off a fanciful sensation that some indefinable menace lurked within, she climbed the worn steps between loose wrought iron railings. In the middle of the shabby front door hung a tarnished silver knocker, formed into the twisted shape of a serpent. Her hand hesitated over the flat, spade-shaped head and started to itch. Should she knock? An old-fashioned doorbell hung on the wall beside the door but it looked so rotten she dared not ring it. As she dithered, she heard the sound of locks snapping apart behind the door and stepped back in apprehension. This might be her last chance to walk away from whatever was waiting for her inside.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she turned the stiff brass knob, pushed the door open, and stepped into the musty entrance hall. With firm clunk the door swung decisively shut behind her. In sudden panic she grabbed at the knob, fully expecting to find it locked, but with a dry creak of resignation the door opened again. Outside on the street the rain was still falling. A light came on in the house opposite and a man in a raincoat followed a small dog towards the end of the road. He did not look up. Perhaps he would not have seen her anyway. She felt a little foolish and closed the door once more.

.

Shivering with unease and cold, she put her heavy bag down and stood listening as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Rainwater dripped from her coat on to the tiled floor and a couple of old-fashioned gas wall lights hissed and sputtered. The hallway was dominated by a wide flight of stairs which rose majestically into the upper reaches of the house. An array of paintings dull with age and neglect hung on the peeling walls, and at the bottom of the stairs a set of long black drapes were drawn closed beneath an elaborate pelmet. Julia liked old houses; she had spent many a Saturday afternoon in peaceful contemplation of Palladian porches and flying buttresses. But despite its size, this place was claustrophobic and oppressive. It smelt mouldy and damp with a hint of dog and a distinct undertone of something organic and slightly rotten.

Clutching her little torch tightly for reassurance, she peered round the nearest door. The light from the street struggling in through the uncurtained windows revealed a reception room with a large fireplace and a sofa, and what looked like a hole in the floor though she decided against investigating further. She shone her torch through the next door into a narrow dining room with a long table. Candle wax had dripped into a volcanic heap under the many-branched candelabra and small footprints tracked through the dust.

At the end of the hall a shabby door led into another dingy, sticky-floored corridor ending at a short flight of bare stone steps leading down to a basement kitchen where the cold air smelt of burnt fat. By the weak light from her torch she could see a table and several chairs, vast amounts of pale crockery stacked on shelves, and an old fashioned range off to the side. But the space was so long, the feeble torch beam was absorbed into the darkness. She returned to the entrance hall.

"Hello?" she whispered bravely. "Is anyone at home?"

There was no reply.

.

The smell of rot grew stronger as she approached the staircase. It seemed to be coming from a large, cylindrical umbrella stand made of some greyish scaly material which was flaking and dropping bits on to the floor. Was it an elephant's foot? Her finger sank a little way into the spongy surface. At the base, toes with great horny yellow nails jutted out. Not an elephant then. She shuddered and wiped her finger on her jeans. Trying not to breathe too deeply she hooked her arm under the straps of her rucksack and began to climb the stairs. A hideous row of wizened shrunken heads mounted on the wall stared at her from blind eyes.

The threadbare carpet was worn, and she had taken only a few steps when her foot caught in a hole and tangled with the frayed threads. Unbalanced, she swore and grabbed hold of the banister, twisting her wrist awkwardly. As she tried to unhook her foot and reorient herself, a wild cackling noise startled a yelp of alarm from her. Crouched on the landing above was the oddest creature she had ever seen. No more than three feet tall, it had huge, watery, bloodshot eyes, and wrinkled bat-like ears. It was wearing a dirty rag around its middle, and an expression of consummate evil. Although she had not encountered one before, she knew this was a house elf.

"Muggle scum!" it shrieked. "My mistress's noble house is no place for such creatures!"

"Oh." Julia was taken aback and had no idea how to respond. "But I believe I'm expected."

"It speaks! It dares to speak!" The elf clapped its bony hands over its large ears. "Mistress!"

A ferocious growl made Julia scream properly. Behind the elf loomed a huge black dog, its eyes reflecting the dim light like liquid silver. Hackles raised, it bared its yellow teeth and snarled. The elf cackled again and scampered down the stairs, brushing past her and disappearing towards the basement. Julia was left to face the slavering beast alone. With a terrified whimper she stepped backwards into thin air, overbalancing and tumbling down several steps. As she put her hand out and grabbed the rail, her wrist twisted again. Crying out in surprise and pain she sank to her knees in despair, clutching her injured arm and squeezing her eyes shut as she braced herself for the ravening jaws to close on her throat.

They did not. Instead there was a dry rustle and a strident voice began to screech abuse. _"Loathsome Muggle filth! Defiling this Great and Noble House!"_

Julia dared to open her eyes. The dog had cocked its head and was eyeing her with apparent puzzlement.

 _"Foul slut!"_ yelled the life-size portrait of an angry-looking middle-aged woman, which had been concealed by the long drapes hanging from the fancy pelmet. " _Begone! Remove the stink of corruption from within these hallowed walls!"_

Barking furiously, the dog bounded downstairs, ignoring Julia. Her fear evaporated, replaced with a more familiar sensation of resigned bafflement. Fragments of cobwebby plaster and flakes of paint floated gently from the ceiling and settled in her hair. A precariously fastened house-elf head fell off the wall taking a strip of mildewed wallpaper with it and bounced down the stairs. It lay on the bottom step, bulbous dead eyes fixed on her in an opaque stare. She recoiled.

 _"Worthless scum!"_ shouted the portrait, spitting and dribbling. " _Leave my grandfather's honoured house!"_

The dog launched itself at the portrait, and got one of its paws caught up in the already tattered curtain. It started to whine and tug frantically at the fabric with its teeth.

"For goodness sake!" said Julia, her tolerance wearing thin. She left her bag on the step and went down to the dog. "You'll never get out like that. Keep still." To her amazement, the dog did exactly that, and doing her best to ignore the increasingly unhinged shrieking from the portrait, she untangled the rotten material that was tangled around its paw. It looked at its free leg, wagged its tail, then with renewed vigour clamped its jaws on a section of the picture frame and started to worry at it. A number of other portraits in the hall started to twitch and grumble in irritation.

"This," said Julia in defeat,"is absolute bloody Bedlam. I can't imagine why I expected anything different." She sat down on the bottom step next to the house-elf head and waited.

 _"Abhorrent good-for-nothing!"_ The portrait woman's face was livid with fury as she screamed at the dog. " _Useless cur! May your teeth crumble! May your tail rot and your tongue blacken and shrivel!"_

After a time the dog lost interest in the portrait, and leaving a slobbery pile of chewed picture frame on the tiled floor turned back to the stairs and padded past Julia without pausing. When it reached her bag a few steps further up it turned to look at her as if waiting.

"This place is a mad-house," she told it, nursing her wrist. "Bloody wizards. There's not a sane one among them. Bloody hell. I suppose you're a magic dog and you want me to follow you. Do you grant wishes by any chance?"

 _"Depart this Noble House at once!"_

"Can't think of anything I'd like more," muttered Julia casting a final glance of dislike at the portrait. As she began to climb towards the dog, it turned away and trotted ahead. Behind her, the portrait kept spewing its vituperative malevolence.

"Does it ever shut up?" Julia asked. "Because I'm getting a headache. Just thought I'd mention that."

The first floor landing was spacious and grand, lit by a couple of candles burning in a chandelier intended for several dozen. Tall double doors were on both sides and another set of doors was just visible beyond an ornate archway. The dog led her on up the next flight of stairs, along a dingy second-floor passage with a wrinkled, threadbare carpet. Julia could still hear the portrait howling from the ground floor and wondered if it would carry on all night.

The dog sat down and scratched behind his ear for a moment then gave a sharp bark and looked at her.

"This is where I'm to stay then, is it?" Julia asked without enthusiasm. "I can hardly wait to see what further delights are in store." With her good hand she turned the serpent's-head shaped knob and opened the door. The room was dark and as unwelcoming as the rest of the house. By the light of her torch she was relieved to see a candelabra with a number of candles in it standing on top of a chest of drawers. Beside it was box of matches. Despite the unwelcoming reception, she was obviously expected.

The candlelight was a cheerful counterpoint to the gloom, and she ineffectually held her hands out to the warmth for a a few seconds. She turned back to the dog but it had gone, so she shut the door and leaned back against it, surveying the room. The walls were hung with dark paper of an indeterminate colour and the curtains were drawn. There was a big wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a dressing table, a spindly chair with a hole in the cane seat, and two old-fashioned iron-framed beds. One of them had been made up, the other had a couple of blankets folded on the bare mattress. The only ornament was a picture frame hanging on the chimney breast above the empty fireplace.

She peeked between the curtains of one of the two windows but could not make out anything beyond a few distant lights and the silhouette of roofs and chimneys against the sky.

.

Before she did anything else, she emptied her rucksack on to the unmade bed and put the ancient book she had been sensible enough to wrap in a plastic bag carefully on a dressing table well away from the candles. Optimistically she spread the other damp documents and her clothes out on the bare mattress to dry. Then she took the paper Albus had written the address on and lit it at a candle, letting it burn away until nothing remained but the singed corner she held. Shivering, she draped her wet coat over the back of the chair then turned back the bedcovers and inspected the sheets. As far as she could tell, they were clean.

It was rather early to go to bed, but Julia felt no inclination to go wandering around this bizarre house in the dark. Leaving one of the candles burning, she shed her wet clothes, folded them over the bedstead and wriggled under the blankets. The lumpy mattress sagged into the middle of the bed. She pulled the covers tight around herself, wrapped the pillow over her ears in an attempt to block out the distant shrill yelling from downstairs, and pictured herself developing double pneumonia and dying alone in this neglected place. How long would it take, she wondered gloomily, for someone to find her desiccated remains? It could be years!

She prodded at her throbbing wrist with the fingers of her other hand, feeling it hot and puffy. Perhaps it was broken. Perhaps, without the appropriate medical attention, it would heal badly. Perhaps she would get gangrene. She groaned in discomfort and tired frustration and beat her head into the pillow, trying to count sheep jumping over a fence, until the sheep turned into dogs and the fence turned into a serpent. Half asleep, she fancied she heard a man's voice raised in annoyance some distance away. A little while later, to her relief, the shouting from downstairs ceased.

.

* * *

.

Sirius wished the woman had not been privy to Padfoot's undignified assault on the frame of Walburga Black's portrait. Still, it couldn't be helped.

His mother had never taken any notice of what he said; neither during her lifetime, nor, it seemed, during her death. His reflexes were not what they should be. Azkaban had taken its toll. Or perhaps it was the drink. Either way, half the time he could not even remember spells properly. It must have been twenty minutes before the blasted thing surrendered and the curtains closed. It might not even have had anything to do with his efforts. The portrait might simply have been as bored and fed up as he was. He sank down on to a step, and landed on something uncomfortable. A shrunken house-elf head that had fallen off the wall stared at him from milky, lifeless eyes. With vague distaste he picked it up and dropped it into the troll's-foot umbrella stand at the bottom of the stairs. It landed with a clink on top of the several empty bottles already deposited there.

Had he eaten today? He could not remember. He rather fancied another drink, but instead he ambled upstairs. In a derelict apartment at the back of the house was a bathroom that had not been used for donkey's years, and which generally yielded a satisfactory harvest of rats. Over the next hour, he dispatched several, ate a couple and took the rest to an appreciative Buckbeak.

Still unsatisfied, he wandered back to the guest bedroom to check that his visitor was still there. He thought she was, but scratched at the door to make sure. Soft footsteps approached.

"Dog? What are you doing here? She appeared surprised to find him there, though why she should have been surprised he didn't know.

He whined to assure her of his friendly intentions.

"Are you coming in?" she stepped aside, holding the door open.

Glad of the invitation, he wagged his tail in gratitude and slipped into the room.

It had not been his intention to stay long. He had only wanted to make her feel welcome, but she seemed genuinely happy to see him, and somehow she pinpointed the itchy spot on the back of his neck that he could never quite reach. He grunted in exquisite pleasure.

She got back into bed and he climbed up beside her and arranged himself across her stomach. "Oof!"she said. "You weigh a ton." She pushed him down on to her legs and drew a sharp breath as if she was in pain. "I think I might have broken something," she said. "What do you think?" she presented her wrist to his nose.

He licked at the hot, swollen joint, and wondered why she did not fix it. Had she lost her wand? He licked a bit more and she sighed with relief. That pleased him. He rested his head on her belly, listening to the soft noises inside. She scratched his neck again.

She smelled . . . mmm . . . he sniffed. Like floral soap and a little perspiration. Like outdoors. Like rain and traffic fumes and freedom. He approved.

"I could use a friend in here," she said.

A friend. _Oh, yes._ Padfoot felt sorry for her. Or something of the sort. Staying with her for a while would be a kind thing to do. Padfoot liked to be kind sometimes. He did not often get the chance.

.

* * *

.

Julia tossed and turned on the lumpy mattress until the pressure in her bladder was unbearable. "It's no good," she said. "I can't wait until the morning. I'll burst." She pushed the dog off the bed and fished her torch from under the pillow. "How am I going to find a toilet?"

The dog wagged his tail helpfully.

"I wish you could show me," she said.

He wagged his tail again.

She put her clammy coat over her shoulders and cautiously opened the door, peering out into the corridor. "Which way, do you think?" She took a few steps to the right but the dog pushed past her and barked, padding the other way. He stopped and sat down by a door at the end of the corridor. He looked back at her, his eyes silver in the torchlight.

"Really?" she said. "Oh God, I hope you're right." She tiptoed towards him, held her breath and turned the doorknob.

Nothing terrible happened so she eased the door open a little way and peered inside. It was indeed an enormous bathroom, already lit by a single flickering candle. She turned back to the dog. "That's amazing," she said. "Can you talk as well?" But he didn't reply so she shut the door on him and slid the bolt across.

The toilet was an old fashioned one with a wooden seat and a long chain hanging from a cistern set high on the wall. A grimy washbasin the size of an armchair was on the wall under a tarnished mirror in a frame moulded with cherubs and snakes. She tried the taps. A trickle of cold water dribbled from one. The other squeaked in protest and disgorged a dead fly.

The bath, mounted on rusty feet, was as big as a small boat. A cobweb stretched across it, and motionless in the middle waited a spider the size of a jam jar lid. Julia shone her torch at it and it stared back at her unmoved. "Tomorrow," she told it, as she sat on the toilet, "you're going to have to find a new home."

.


	4. Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Know

.

By the time Julia finally fell asleep the windows were already showing as pale rectangles behind the curtains. When she woke some time later, she felt groggy and stiff. Her wrist had swollen and it hurt to move her fingers. There was an ominous ripping sound when she tried to open the curtains, so she carefully pulled one aside and tucked it behind the candelabra. Something that looked like a dusty pink rubber ear attached to a length of knicker elastic was on the windowsill and she prodded at it gingerly but it did not move.

She stood at the window for a while looking out over an empty high-walled yard which seemed to have no gate leading out to the narrow back-alley beyond. On the other side of the alley were the rear gardens of another terrace. There was washing on lines, swings and paddling pools, patios and barbecues, but Julia had the sense of being an invisible observer. Almost like a ghost. Not really in the same world. Able to see but not touch. She felt homesick for her little flat and she wanted someone to talk to.

Pulling one of the moth-eaten blankets off the bed and swathing it around her shoulders, she inspected her surroundings. The ceiling was high and stained as if, many years ago, there had been a leak in the room above. Dreary paper of a murky, indistinct pattern, peeling at the edges, hung on the walls. The wardrobe was empty except for an old birdcage; the drawers held an odd sock, several small knitted hats, a packet of birdseed and an old silk wrap, which was beautiful though it smelt of mothballs. She admired it for a moment before putting it back.

The canvas in the picture frame hanging above the fireplace seemed to be blank, but when she got close to it, Julia fancied she could hear soft mutterings. Her experience with the portrait downstairs made her cautious _._ She tried to lift the frame from the wall but it would not budge. Eventually, she took one of the blankets off the spare bed and draped it over the picture, hooking the corners of the frame into moth-holes to keep it in place. It made her feel a little better.

Where had the dog had gone? Was she alone in the house apart from him? She stood very still by the door and listened for voices or footsteps but heard nothing. Professor Dumbledore had given her the impression that whoever lived here would help her, but perhaps he had been mistaken.

She revisited the dingy bathroom without meeting anyone except the huge spider which was resolutely immobile. Half-heartedly, she wet her toothbrush under the dribbly tap and brushed her teeth. After dragging a hairbrush through her lank hair, she cleaned the grimy mirror above the stained sink with the corner of her towel in order to confirm the suspicion that she looked frightful. Still, she reminded herself, she was not there to take part in a beauty contest.

She retrieved a teabag from her rucksack and went in search of a kettle.

On the first floor landing she paused and considered exploring what she guessed would be the principal rooms, but she did not know what she would find beyond the grand doors and it seemed prudent to exercise restraint until she got her bearings.

The stairs leading down to the ground floor were wide. Not perhaps quite wide enough to accommodate a hearse sideways-on but—she stretched her arms out—well over five feet. She could probably lie down across them in the unlikely event she should be inclined to do such a thing. Daylight filtered through from a narrow window on the landing and from a semicircular stained glass fanlight above the front door.

To reassure herself that she could escape if necessary she tested the door again. It opened without protest and she peered out into the street. The weather had improved but the pavements were still wet and shiny.

The kitchen was, as she had thought the previous evening, a vast, dismal place lined with shelves and dressers stacked with dusty china. An immense table with at least twenty mismatched chairs around it ran nearly the whole length of the room. At the far end were a couple more doors and a chipped Belfast sink. A huge and ancient cooking range dominated the end where she had entered . A tall, rather unkempt man was leaning on it with his arms folded. Everything about him radiated hostility.

"Oh, there is someone here after all!" said Julia attempting a friendly smile. "I was starting to wonder."

"I suppose you must be . . . er, Julia."

"You are expecting me then? I'm sorry to intrude." She waved her teabag in anticipation. "I was hoping to make some tea."

The stranger's expression was cold. "Feel free," he said and jerked his head backwards. "Kettle's there."

Mindful of what Albus had told her, she suppressed her inclination to make a sharp retort and moved nearer to study him. "Oh!" She sat down suddenly, glad to find a chair handy, for her knees had gone weak. "Oh," she said again.

Now she understood why Professor Dumbledore had sent her here. Her voice had become embarrassingly unsteady. "Sirius Black."

"Your observational skills are clearly second to none." His harsh voice was heavy with sarcasm.

Julia almost laughed but was afraid she would sound hysterical. "So," she said with a calmness she did not feel. "You're the psychopathic murderer and criminal mastermind behind the mass break-out from Azkaban? You don't look much like one."

"Like what?" he asked. "A mass murderer? Or a criminal mastermind?"

"Well either, I suppose," said Julia. "Not that I'm altogether sure what one does look like, you understand. But I might have expected something a little more impressive and—well—scary, you know. I read a book once"—nerves were making her garrulous—"that said psychopaths have a particular look about the eyes."

He breathed in deeply through his nose, leaned towards her and snarled. "Perhaps I'm just misunderstood!"

She stood up and backed away in alarm inching her hand toward a heavy looking candlestick. As she tried to take hold of it she winced in pain. Then she collected herself. She was made of sterner stuff than this. "I don't believe a word of it," she said briskly, "and don't try to bully me."

"What's wrong with your hand?" he asked.

"Oh." Julia was self-conscious. "I take it you didn't hear the noise when I arrived last night? I had a little . . . difficulty with the welcoming committee. Frankly your house elf was extremely unpleasant. Then the portrait behind the curtains in the hall started to shout. I thought your dog was going to savage me and I fell down the stairs trying to escape, and then that woman in the painting shouted at me even more." Julia pursed her lips. "Awful things too. I thought it would never stop. And that's how I hurt my wrist. That portrait is horrible. Why on earth do you keep it?"

"I keep it," said Sirius, "to deter unwanted visitors. And that is my dear, departed mother you're talking about."

Julia felt her face grow hot with mortification. "Oh my," she said. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realise." She sat down again in confusion.

Sirius gave a humourless laugh that sounded like a bark. "She was a bitch when she was alive, and death hasn't improved her temperament."

"Oh." Julia felt slightly dizzy.

"Molly Weasley left you a note." He shoved a folded piece of parchment across the table. "She got your room ready for you. I wouldn't have bothered myself."

"That was kind of her. I can only imagine what it would have been like if she hadn't."

"Don't be too fussy," said Sirius. "It won't do you any good. Take it as it is or go; it's all the same to me. I don't want you here."

She sighed, and opened the letter. _'Dear Julia,'_ she read aloud. ' _I'm so sorry I can't be there to meet you and show you round, but Albus says the less anyone knows about whatever it is you're doing, the better. You will find the Muggle plumbing works well enough without magic. Sometimes there is even hot water. I'm afraid you won't get much of a welcome. Try not to mind Sirius too much. His bark is worse than his bite (if you know what I mean) but he is harmless. Good luck! Molly. x'_

"His bark is worse than his bite if you know what I mean _,"_ she said and looked up at Sirius. "What does she mean? _Do_ you bite?"

He scowled. "Only when provoked. But what does she mean by saying the Muggle plumbing is working. You aren't— _are_ you?"

"If you mean, _You aren't a Muggle, are you?_ Then yes," said Julia, "I'm a Muggle. Not a magic bone in my body. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Oh, this just gets better and better," muttered Sirius. He gave an exaggerated sigh and sat down at the table beside her. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"Give me your hand," he insisted, holding his own hand out expectantly.

"I'm not sure . . ."

"For crying out loud, you can't leave it like that. I can fix it for you."

Reluctantly, she offered up the limb and he took it in a firm, confident grasp. His long, bony fingers were warm on her bare skin and she was intensely aware of his touch. _Harmless?_ She had her doubts.

He flicked his wand, muttering something under his breath. Her wrist grew so hot it was uncomfortable, but then just as quickly, the sensation faded and within seconds the ache had almost gone. Impressed, she looked to see the swelling going down before her eyes.

"Well, thank you," she said, beaming at him. "That was very kind."

"No it wasn't," he said. "I don't need an invalid here. In fact it is actually rather inconvenient to have you here at all. I don't know what Dumbledore was thinking."

Julia was quite deflated, her momentary gratitude replaced by annoyance. "Perhaps he thought you'd be glad of the company." Shamefully she resorted to sarcasm. "I didn't realise you were so busy. It must require a great deal of concentration staying in hiding. I'll try not to distract you too much."

"I don't need company. I like being alone."

For a second Julia sensed his isolation and gave an inward shiver. She studied him more closely. He didn't seem to be properly dressed. He was barefoot and his clothes were an odd mixture of dirty wizard's robes of a vaguely muddy colour, and faded Muggle jeans with holes in the knees. Long hair fell across his forehead in dark unwashed waves streaked with grey. Untidy whiskers sprouted on his chin and hollow cheeks and his eyes were deeply shadowed. He was tall and looked thin, tired and neglected. She smelled sweat and the sour sweetness of too much drink and too little food.

 _Here is a man_ , she thought, _on the edge of self-destruction_. She found him uncomfortably fascinating.

"I met your dog last night," she said, trying to steer the conversation into neutral territory.

"Really."

"He's a lovely dog."

"So I'm given to understand."

"What's his name?"

"His name is Padfoot. Or Snuffles."

"Snuffles!" exclaimed Julia. "You can't call such a fine beast a silly name like Snuffles!"

Sirius looked faintly gratified. "Not my idea," he said.

"If you don't mind my saying—"

"You can stop there," said Sirius holding up his hand. "In my experience, when a woman says that, I'll mind it very much. So whatever it is you want to say, don't bother."

Undeterred, she carried on. "Your dog. Padfoot. I like him a lot. He is definitely the most intelligent animal I have ever known. But he doesn't look very well cared for. He deserves better. In fact," she said looking more closely at Sirius, "you don't look terribly well for yourself. Are you eating properly? And what are you feeding him? I bet you don't give him decent dog food."

"Mainly," said Sirius, "he eats rats."

"Rats!" she exclaimed. "But he slept on my bed last night!"

"Did he now?" Sirius smirked. "Fancy that."

"And he's been eating _rats?"_ Julia felt a bit queasy. "That means . . . there are rats in this house! Bloody hell, this place really is a dump. Are there many rats here?"

"Not anymore," said Sirius looking morose. "He's eaten most of them. That's why he's getting thin."

Julia found herself at a loss for words, which was unusual. Sirius bared his teeth at her in something approximating a smile, winked lasciviously, and left the room without another word. The kettle contained just enough hot water for a cup of black tea which she made in a mug she found upside down on the slimy wooden draining board.

.

* * *

.

Sirius cleared a space on the littered floor of his mother's bedroom and made himself comfortable against Buckbeak's warm flank. "You're getting fat," he said. "Not enough exercise." He prodded his own stomach. "Probably makes two of us. Merlin, I hate this place." He pulled the cork out of a bottle with his teeth and spat it into the fireplace, lifting the bottle towards a photograph of his parents that frowned from the dressing table. "Cheers, Ma and Pa. I like to think you can see how well I turned out." He took a deep swig and closed his eyes.

A Muggle. The woman was a bloody _Muggle._.

"What the hell was the old bugger thinking?" he asked Buckbeak. "Merlin's bollocks. A Muggle in this house! She'll need a bloody nursemaid to keep her out of trouble."

Sirius was disproportionately annoyed. It had never been an overriding ambition of his to look like a criminal mastermind but he had the impression that she considered him not even capable of being one. _Stupid woman. What the hell did she know about anything?_ And Molly-bloody-Weasley had said he was harmless. _Harmless!_

Would the Muggle have actually tried to bash him with the candlestick? She had accused him of being a bully. _Ridiculous._

He wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle. It was about the same thickness as her wrist. It had felt slender and fragile. If he'd had a mind to he could have broken it with his bare hands. Snapped it like a twig. He had noticed the contrast between his big bony hand with rough calluses on the palms, and her smaller, smooth one. She had been chewing her thumbnail; it was ragged at the corners. Perhaps she was not quite as self-possessed as she seemed.

At least he had got the spell right first time. He should have done, after all he had plenty of practise. About the only useful magic he ever did these days involved repairing his own self-inflicted wounds. But she had been impressed, he could tell, and her spontaneous smile had made his throat ache and the breath catch in his chest for a moment. It had been years since a woman had smiled at him like that.

When she had looked at him as if she was studying an exotic creature in a zoo he had managed to keep still, although the urge to fidget had been overwhelming. She had not worn the same expression of disdain and faint disgust he had become used to getting from Molly. In fact she had shown every indication of being quite interested in him and he had become acutely aware of what he must look like. Since he generally dressed in the first thing that came to hand, regardless of what it was or where he found it, he doubted he had been looking his best.

She had been taken with Padfoot though, that was clear enough. He was torn between gratification and embarrassment. _Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn!_ What the hell had possessed him? If he had been able to, he would have kicked Padfoot's arse up all four flights of stairs and back down again. Because if anything was certain, it was that now he could not possibly tell this woman the truth. The humiliation would be unbearable.

.

* * *

.

Julia made a cursory survey of a couple of small rooms off the short passage between the entrance hall and the basement steps. One of them appeared to be a nearly empty wine store and the other a repository for broken furniture, rusty cauldrons and threadbare brooms. Then she explored the kitchen, scullery, and pantry. Next to the scullery, behind a low door under a tangle of dull copper pipes, she found a tiny room with a pile of debris in the corner and a huge antiquated boiler which was warm and occasionally rumbled and gurgled. Beyond the boiler room a few steps led down to a small cellar containing a pile of coal smothered in a mat of cobwebs. A little light came from a translucent grid overhead. She turned in a circle trying to get her bearings. The coal cellar must be just under the pavement at the front of the house.

Most of the shelves in the pantry were empty of anything but dead insects. A few dusty jars and bottles stood on the top shelves and on the stone floor under the dirty wooden counter, but she felt no desire to investigate the contents. She pushed a big brown bottle back from the edge of a marble slab. It was about half-full and a paper label with a picture of a hairy, many-legged, insect-like creature with sharp teeth, declared in ornate script: _Budge's Bundimun Bane: for the removal and deterrence of Doxys and other common household pests._

After half an hour, she concluded there wasn't anything else to see in the basement. What on earth did Sirius eat? Apart from half a jar of something with an unfamiliar name but which looked and smelled exactly like instant coffee, there was virtually nothing in the way of provisions. Some wizards, she knew, were able to duplicate food, but it was a special talent she suspected Sirius didn't possess. And there had to be something there to start with in any case. No wonder he looked so unhealthy.

.

She sat at the colossal table, longing for a proper cup of tea and intermittently chewing the end of her pen as she made a shopping list. The temptation to abandon the house and the irascible Sirius Black was strong. But she was not a woman to go back on her word.

She retraced the route the taxi had brought her in on the previous day until she reached the row of shops she remembered. A convenience store at one end and a fish and chip shop at the other sandwiched a pet shop, a hairdresser and a betting shop between them.

Shopping while hungry was never a good idea. She spent more on a loaded basket of groceries from the convenience store than she normally did on a full week's housekeeping, and wished she had discussed the delicate matter of expenses with Albus. If she had to stay here long, she would be bankrupt in no time. The sooner she could get back to paid employment, the better.

On a whim, she called into the pet shop before staggering back to Grimmauld Place laden with carrier bags. When she set foot on the worn steps up to the front door, she heard someone scream behind her and winced. That was probably just the sort of attention Professor Dumbledore wanted to avoid.

.

* * *

.

Later in the afternoon, Padfoot called into the kitchen to see what Julia had been doing and found it deserted, but a bowl, which had not been there earlier, was on the floor. He investigated. What was _that?_ Oh. _Oh._ Succulent, meaty, brown and juicy, it smelled divine. A string of drool slipped from the side of his mouth. He made no attempt to resist the temptation.

It was delicious. The best thing he had eaten in . . . well, possibly ever. If there was a faintly bitter aftertaste in his mouth, it was still better than the taste of rat. He was completely fed up with eating rats. He licked the sides of the bowl in case he had missed any before going back upstairs.

.

* * *

.

Sirius waited until he had heard the Muggle woman go to her room, and when she appeared to be staying put, he went down to the kitchen. There was something on the table, covered with a cloth. He lifted the corner and looked underneath. It was a plate of sandwiches. He prodded them. Still fresh.

He took the top slice off one and studied the filling with interest. There was cheese and ham and tomatoes and pickle and some crispy green leaves. He had not eaten anything resembling a vegetable since January and his mouth watered. He might just try one. Or two.

Comfortably replete for the first time in months, he picked apart the stubs of a few cigarettes he had saved on an old plate, rolled a new one and tucked it behind his ear. On his way upstairs, he collected another bottle of wine.

.

* * *

.

Padfoot thought he should check up on Julia. Sirius tried to explain why that was not a good idea, but Padfoot ignored him. They were quite good at ignoring each other when they chose.

Julia was pleased to see him. He had known she would be. He rested his head on her lap while she combed her fingers through his coat and pulled out a few tangles. "Did you like your dinner, sweetie? We'll have you sleek and shiny in no time! He's a grumpy sod, your master, isn't he? Very bad tempered. I don't think he likes me."

Padfoot wondered at that, in his doggy way. Sirius was bad-tempered, yes; but did he actually dislike her? It was a bit too complicated to think about, and he turned over so that Julia could rub his belly instead.

"Are you here for the night then?" she asked. "Won't Sirius miss you? He'll be lonely."

That was nice of her, he thought, to worry about Sirius. He tried to reassure her. Sweetie. She had called him Sweetie. He wanted her to do it again.

.

.


	5. A Battle of Wills

.

Julia stood in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal and surveying the monstrous range from a safe distance. She feared injudicious meddling would be punished by an eruption of ash and soot or an explosive discharge of dirty water from the crusted tap at the side of the grate.

When she had finished her breakfast she approached it warily. The kettle resting on the thick bars was a heavy cast iron thing and there was an empty teapot hiding behind it. The oven doors were stiff, and the inside of the oven rusty. Burnt grease splattered the hob and as she fiddled with various knobs and levers whose purpose she could only guess at, flakes of soot dropped out of the flue. But it was a Muggle stove made by and for Muggles and in spite of its formidable appearance there should be no reason why she couldn't use it.

Did Albus really expect Sirius to help her? There were answers here, she was sure of that, but she still had to find them. A woman could spend months poking around in this dismal mess of a house on her own without finding what she needed. And in any case, she didn't have months. She had about a fortnight.

What was she going to do about Sirius? Even if she begged for his assistance—which she had no intention of doing—she suspected he would refuse. It was clear he was not going to cooperate willingly, but she needed him on her side. The way to a man's heart, she had found, was generally—as tradition said—through his stomach. But though the sandwiches she had left on the table the previous day had disappeared without trace, Sirius's heart, she suspected, was beyond reach. Still, if anyone needed a square meal, he did.

.

.

He slid into the kitchen looking, if anything, worse than he had the day before.

"Morning!" she said cheerfully. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

He grunted.

"That's good," she said. "I'd really like one too. Only there isn't any hot water."

Sirius scowled at her and pointed his wand at the kettle which started to steam.

"Excellent." Julia took the lid off the teapot and peered into it doubtfully.

He narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you looking for?"

"Dormice," she said shortly. She swilled some hot water around the pot and looked at him again. He was pale and sweating. "Are you all right?"

"I'm a bit under the weather. I'll be fine."

"You don't eat properly," she said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you're suffering from a vitamin deficiency. You might even have scurvy. Do your gums bleed?"

Sirius looked bewildered.

"Because I couldn't find any vegetables," she continued. "Unless you count this." Carefully, she picked something up from beside the sink and put it on the table. It had a mass of pale tentacles and looked like a deformed squid. "I found it in the pantry."

"What in Merlin's name is that? Is it alive?"

"It's a potato," she said. "I thought perhaps you were saving it for a special occasion. There wasn't much of anything. I don't know what's in those storage jars but they don't seem to have been touched for years."

"I think," said Sirius, "you should be adventurous and open them."

"I don't think I will. Anyway, I hope you don't mind—well, frankly I don't care whether you mind or not—but I bought some proper dog food for Padfoot. And I took the liberty of putting some worming medication in it."

"You did _what?"_

"There's a pet shop round the corner. You must know it. They were very helpful. I don't know what breed Padfoot is . . .?" She paused hopefully. Sirius stared at her. She shrugged. "I just told them how big he was"—she held her arms apart as far as they would go—"and they said I should double the recommended dose. And he ate it all! Isn't he a good boy? Have you seen him this morning? I think it can have a slightly laxative effect, but he'll be fine. Although—I don't know what sort of . . . arrangements you have for . . . that sort of thing? I thought I might get some cod liver oil too. For his coat." She started to pour the tea.

Sirius made a strangled noise, and Julia looked at him in alarm, to see the most appalled expression on his face. "You really are the most stupid, interfering woman!" he yelled. "Bloody hell! Don't think you've heard the last of this. Merlin's Beard!" A look of horror came over his face and he dashed out of the room.

"Sirius!" she called after him. "Don't you want your tea?" _How very odd,_ she thought. He seemed to be in a terrible hurry.

.

She shook the cobwebs off some shabby robes she found hanging in the scullery to use as an overall, and took the bucket from beside the sink down into the coal cellar where she pressed one of Sirius's saucepans into use as a coal shovel.

Swearing under her breath, she manhandled the bucket back up the steps feeling that this particular novelty would wear off in no time. She approached the stove again armed with a packet of firelighters, a box of matches and steely determination. "You really should be in a museum," she told it. "Or a scrap yard. But as you aren't, I think we should establish a working relationship."

She put a smelly white block on top of the cinders in the grate and lit it, gradually arranging small pieces of coal around it until she had a small, bright fire. Then she piled more fuel on top. So far so good. The tap at the base of the stove started to splutter so she put a soup tureen underneath to catch the drips. She refilled the kettle and heaved it back on to the fire and as it came to the boil she appropriated a cup and saucer from one of the immense dressers. Under the layer of dirt it was beautifully decorated and gilded and probably very old. _Such a shame,_ she thought as she filled the teapot.

Victorious, she dropped into a shabby armchair watching the flames that crackled in the stove, and drank three cups of tea from the pretty cup.

.

Energised and more confident, but with a caution born of experience, she trawled the extensive cupboards. An old newspaper had been stuffed into a drawer, and underneath it she found a dog-eared photograph. Caught by surprise, she had to sit down again and collect herself. She had never seen the picture before, but she remembered taking it. Seventeen, she had been. Excited and self conscious to be included in the group, but a little nervous of the camera which seemed unwieldy and old fashioned, and made the palm of her hand itch.

"Press the button and hold it," Arthur had said." It will tell you when it's done. "

The dog had run around in circles herding everyone together. There it was, sitting at the front of the group wagging its tail triumphantly. Afterwards, the younger ones had taken Julia along to that club they liked. What had it been called? _The End of the World_? Something like that. Looking back it seemed like a foreshadowing of the horrors to come such a short time later. She touched her finger gently to one of the faces that smiled from the picture, and found the memory still raw. Tears she thought had long ago dried up, ran down her cheeks and she was glad no one was there to see. _Was it war again?_

 _._

After a little while, she wiped her face, turned the picture upside down, and put it back in the drawer, with the folded newspaper on top of it. Then she set to clearing the enormous table.

At one end, a cracked dinner plate had been pressed into service as an ashtray. Sirius must be a smoker. Wrinkling her nose, she was about to empty it into an old cauldron she was using as a dustbin when she noticed that the cigarette stubs had been carefully arranged around the outside of the plate. With an unwelcome sensation that might have been pity, she realised that Sirius must be saving them to salvage the remnants of unburnt tobacco. She sat down at the table and stared at the plate for a while. Pity be damned. The way to his cooperation was more likely to be through his lungs than his stomach. She checked the time on her watch. She had just enough time to get to the corner shop and back.

.

.

Some time later, Sirius came back into the kitchen. He looked rather better than he had done earlier in the day.

"Where's Padfoot?" she said, her hands occupied in a mixing bowl. "I haven't seen him all day."

"I don't know where he is. And this is _my_ kitchen. What are you doing?"

"What does it look like? I'm cooking. That's what kitchens are for. I want to see him."

"Well you can't see him."

"Why not?" She stopped mixing. "He is all right isn't he? He hasn't reacted badly to the medicine?"

" _Now_ you're worrying about dosing him up with Merlin-knows-what? You should have thought of that before."

Julia was stricken and tears sprang into her eyes. "I only wanted to help!"

"Oh, for crying out loud." Sirius threw his arms up in a gesture of defeat." He's fine. I expect he'll make an appearance later."

"Are you sure he's fine?"

"Yes, I am absolutely sure he's absolutely bloody fine."

"All right then. I'm glad to say I haven't seen your house elf either. What's its name?"

"His name," said Sirius, "is Kreacher."

"Creature! That's awful!"

"Is it? Why?"

"Well . . . I'd say it was dehumanising but I don't suppose that applies."

"I don't suppose it does," he agreed.

"It's still horrible."

"Morrigans tits! Why are you blaming me? I didn't name him."

"I'm not blaming you. Did I say I was blaming you? I'm going to feed you this evening. You need a decent dinner and I think it will be an opportunity for us to become properly acquainted."

He looked suspicious. "I don't know that I fancy Muggle food."

"I'm not going to poison you," said Julia. "Don't be so churlish. Believe it or not, I'm a good cook, and I've eaten enough wizard food to know that you people haven't got the monopoly on fine cuisine. And for someone who lets his dog eat rats, and looks as if he probably eats rats himself, I suggest you don't criticise. And if you don't mind me saying—"

"I do actually," said Sirius.

"—you smell as if you eat rats, too. I know the plumbing in this house—though admittedly crude and rudimentary—is functional. Up to a point. So there's really no excuse. I'll cook a meal for you if you have a bath. And clean your teeth."

Sirius's mouth opened and closed in silent indignation.

"And unless you have been doing a lot of entertaining recently—which I have to say seems a bit unlikely"—Julia continued, getting into her stride—"You are drinking far too much. There are thirty-seven empty wine bottles in the scullery." She started to roll the floury mixture into little balls.

A vein began to throb dangerously at Sirius's temple. "That is enough. Keep your fucking nose out of my fucking business!"

"Ooh!" She gave an exaggerated shiver of delight. "I love to hear a posh bloke swear. Do it again!"

Speechless with fury, Sirius stormed out, slamming the door behind him, which was unfortunate as it made the handle fall off, altogether ruining the desired effect. Julia could only see the back of his departing head but she thought his ears had gone an angry red.

Satisfied for the time being, she went in search of a decent saucepan.

.

* * *

.

How dare she! _How bloody dare she?_ This stupid, ignorant Muggle woman coming into his house. _His house!_ Interfering with his things. Making free with his kitchen. Taking liberties with Padfoot. And presuming to criticise him. _Him!_ _Sirius Black!_ Did she not know who he was?

Why had he allowed her to needle him into being defensive? House elves, really!

But where, he wondered, exactly _was_ Kreacher most of the time? He hadn't considered the matter until the Muggle woman had mentioned it; he was just glad that the elf was largely absent. But still . . . a prickle of unease ran up his neck.

And thirty-seven had to be an exaggeration. For a moment he pictured the empty bottles she had not seen; in the troll's foot umbrella stand; in the Chinese camphor blanket box on the third floor landing; inside the grand piano in the drawing room. Under his mother's bed.

Cautiously, he sniffed his armpit and wondered if she might have a point. He tried to recall when he had last taken a bath and could not. Around Christmas time, probably. Remus had never seemed to care what he smelt like and he had hardly seen anyone else since January. He cupped his hands over his mouth and tried to smell his breath.

"Sorry, Octavius," he said, gathering the huge spider that had taken up residence in the only moderately functional bath in the house, into a bubble at the end of his wand. "I'm relocating you."

A little later, partially submerged in warm water, he wondered why he did not do this more often. It was really quite pleasant. He looked down at himself. His skin was pale with dark hairs. Most of the scars were fading to pink and white. Half of them he couldn't even recall getting. He observed his nether regions with vague interest and experienced a faint anxiety. How long was it now? Fourteen years—fifteen!—since he had felt a woman in his arms. Since he had rested his head against the soft pillows of a woman's breasts. For some seconds the familiar feeling of anger he so carefully nurtured was replaced by sadness.

Eventually, when he could no longer be bothered with reheating the water, he got out and dried himself. _In for a knut, in for a sickle,_ he thought, gathering enough courage to peer into the mirror the Muggle woman had recently cleaned. He began to trim his whiskers.

.


	6. The Silencing of Walburga Black

.

Wearing a pair of clean jeans he suspected belonged to Bill Weasley, and with an old shirt thrown over his shoulder, Sirius descended into the kitchen. It was more appealing, somehow, than any other room in the house at the moment. Because it was warmer, obviously; certainly not because the Muggle woman was in there.

The air was rich with the smell of baking, and something savoury bubbled gently on the hob. He had to admit a grudging respect. The damn stove was tiresomely contrary even with magical inducement, but Julia seemed to have a knack with it he himself had never mastered. Just for a moment he closed his eyes and felt an unfamiliar contentment.

Julia looked up at his entrance, clutching a handful of cutlery in one hand and an ancient tea towel in the other. Her eyes widened gratifyingly and she licked her lips with a small, pink tongue.

Sirius was quite sure she had not done it on purpose but he experienced an almost-forgotten but deeply reassuring rush of blood to his groin. Surreptitiously he flexed his muscles and pulled in his stomach. "Will I do?" he asked, giving her a lascivious wink.

Her face turned a fetching shade of pink and she dropped a spoon in confusion. She bent to pick it up, muttering, "I've seen quite enough for now. Just get dressed, why don't you."

Pleased with himself, he shrugged his shirt on and sat down at the table. Without a word she handed him a mug of tea and slid a bowl of sugar towards him. Then she gave her attention back to the stove and ignored him.

Absently he spooned sugar into his mug and stirred as he studied her from behind. _Quite a trim little figure,_ he thought with approval. There was pretty curve to her hips. Soft brown hair formed little curls just below the nape of her neck, and was held back at the sides with sensible clips. Her movements were economical and competent and watching her made him feel—what _was_ that feeling? Was it— _safe?_

A pale yellow slab in a dish looked promising. Was it—? He scooped a corner off with his finger and put it in his mouth. It _was_ butter. Julia lifted something out of the oven, nudging the door closed with her knee. He salivated, hardly believing his eyes. Bread; crusty and warm. Still not speaking she put it on a board in front of him and neatly cut off the crust. Without a thought he slathered it with butter and stuffed it into his mouth. It was the best thing that had happened to him for months. She raised her eyebrows but said nothing. As she ladled the stew out into two bowls, he hacked off another fat, uneven slice.

There were chunks of tender meat in a rich gravy with vegetables, potatoes and were those—? They were! Dumplings! He bit into one, taking the time to chew instead of swallowing as fast as he could. It was soft in his mouth and had been seasoned with some sort of herb. He felt the warm flavour at the back of his throat and grunted in pleasure. He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank the last of the gravy. Then he licked it clean.

When he looked up, Julia was staring at him with an expression of alarm. He belched to hide a sudden embarrassment. "Not bad. Could have done with a bit more salt."

"Really?" she said, breaking her silence. "Why didn't you say sooner? I'm afraid I'm not altogether _au fait_ with table manners in the upper echelons of wizarding society. Still, I daresay I'll pick it up eventually." Shaking her head with a rather superior and annoying little smile on her face, she scraped the last of the stew out of the pan into his bowl. He cut himself another slice of bread, surprised to see that there was only a crust left.

Stroking his now slightly distended belly, he leaned back in his chair and observed her rear as she washed up. There was a somewhat resentful set to her shoulders and she seemed to be making an unnecessary amount of noise. Should he offer to help? No, he thought not. Furtively he admired the shape of her arse and when she stretched to reach a shelf he caught a brief glimpse of pale midriff.

He fancied a cigarette and reached for his makeshift ashtray. "Shit! Where's my plate?"

"Plate?" She turned round and raised her eyebrows innocently.

"The plate that was"—he jabbed his finger on the table—"here."

"The one someone had been using as an ashtray you mean? Quite disgusting."

"You haven't—you bloody have! You've thrown it away. You stupid cow." He couldn't even summon the energy to yell at her. He felt beaten and put his head in his hands. Now he really, _really_ wanted a smoke.

.

"Hey." He hadn't heard her approach. She touched his arm.

"Fuck off," he said without looking up.

"Here." She nudged him again and put something on the table in front of him. A plastic wallet of Muggle rolling tobacco. He blinked and touched it incredulously as if it was some cruel joke and the thing might disappear. "It's real," she said, putting a pack of papers down beside it. "Smoking's a terrible habit. You should give it up."

.

* * *

.

Sirius hadn't uttered a word of thanks but the bemused expression on his face would do well enough, Julia thought, as she left him sitting motionless at the table staring at the packet in front of him.

When he had stood there in the kitchen earlier, bold as brass, half-naked, skinny and scarred yet quite comfortable in his own skin, a wicked grin had flashed across his face so swiftly that if she had blinked she would have missed it. Like an unwelcome crumb in the throat, that grin stuck in her memory: and when she closed her eyes she saw it again. Sirius could still, if he chose, be a man of quite irresistible charm. And to her he was a clear and present danger; she would not deny it. And he hadn't helped with the washing up.

As she began to climb the stairs, she caught her foot in the holey carpet again and swore loudly. As she untangled herself, the dusty curtains under the fancy pelmet swept apart and the portrait of Sirius's mother began another shrill tirade. " _I smell Muggle filth in this glorious house! The pollution of the unclean!"_

Sirius appeared at the far end of the hall looking infuriatingly smug. A thin, unlit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

The portrait turned its ire on him. " _The Blood Traitor in our midst shall perish and fall forgotten into the shadow of the void!"_

Julia's gossamer-thin patience snapped. "This is the last straw, you revolting old cow, shut the hell up!" She grabbed the tattered curtains and yanked them closed. The screaming stopped.

Sirius's jaw dropped visibly. He picked the cigarette off his lip and waved it at her. "How the . . . how the hell did you do that? I've been trying to silence the old bitch for years."

"Get over yourself, Sirius," said Julia. "You can't help yourself, can you?" She flapped her hand around wearily. "You live in this disgusting, smelly, squalid house, even though with your wonderful magic it would take you no time at all to keep it clean. You let your dog eat rats. You fester in a stew of your own bile, and you still think you're better than everyone else. I'm a Muggle, Sirius. A Muggle, not an idiot! Your bloody magic only works on me if I want it to!"

"I don't think I'm better than anyone," said Sirius bitterly. "Can you all do that? All Muggles, I mean." He stuck the rather limp cigarette behind his ear.

"I'm not sure," said Julia. "The thing is, most Muggles don't know it's something they should learn." She let her gaze rest on one of the shrunken house-elf heads without really looking at it. "My brother used to play tricks on me. A lot. Magic tricks. Until I got fed up with it and decided I wasn't going to play his games. And then I found it sort of . . . soaked in. It stopped working on me. But it gives me hives."

"What does?"

"Absorbing magic. Like _that_." She looked sourly at the shrouded portrait of Sirius's mother. "It gives me hives. Look." She pulled her collar down to show him a spot on her neck. "It makes me itchy."

"Want me to scratch it for you?"

"No thanks," said Julia getting warm. "I have to consciously allow it if I want it to work on me. Like getting into this house here, or letting you fix my wrist. Deep magic, of course—Old Magic, you know—that's different."

Sirius nodded in agreement and looked interested. "Your brother's a wizard?"

"Was. I'd give anything for him to come back and play a trick on me now." Her voice had developed an embarrassing wobble.

"Yeah," Sirius said. "You and me both."

"You had a younger brother didn't you?"

"He wasn't one of the good guys. But still he was hardly more than a kid and I— Tell me about your brother."

"I don't like to talk about it," said Julia. She sat down on the bottom step and leaned back against the carved newel post. Then she grimaced and shuffled over to the other side of the step. "That"—she pointed at the umbrella stand—"smells like a decomposing corpse."

"Does it?" said Sirius. "I can't say I'd noticed." He leaned over and sniffed. "Merlin's whiskers, you're right. Um—" he tapped the end of his wand against his chin. "I know. He waved his wand. " _Odoratius florea._ Is that better?"

"It smells like cheap air freshener now," said Julia after a moment's consideration, "but it's better than the smell of putrefaction." Wrapping her arms around her knees, she squinted up at him. "We didn't get off to a very good start, did we?"

Sirius folded his arms and leaned against the wall, his face shadowed and unreadable in the yellow light.

"This is such a big house, I wondered . . . is there anyone else here? Anyone human, I mean."

"I can say with absolute certainty that you and I are the only human beings in this delightfully well-appointed residence. I'm afraid we'll have to make our own entertainment."

"Oh." Julia was flat.

"I can see that's disappointing for you."

"It's not that. It's . . . Professor Dumbledore told me I would get help here."

That surprised a humourless bark of laughter from Sirius. "He told you what? The old fool must be going senile."

"I don't think so. And I don't think he's a fool."

"So he didn't tell you I'm too useless to be trusted with anything?"

"No he didn't. And," she added kindly, "I'm sure you're not useless. Not really."

Sirius sighed and sat down on the step beside her. Using the end of his wand as a lighter he sucked on his cigarette until the end glowed red and puffed out a few contemplative smoke rings. "I don't mean to be rude," he said. "I'm sure you mean well, but I'm not interested."

"Don't you want to know why Professor Dumbledore sent me here?"

"Not in the least."

Julia eyed one of the heavy brass stair rods. She thought she could pry one loose without too much difficulty. Stealthily she tried to hook her toes behind the one at her feet.

"But I suppose I'll have to let you tell me," he said, "or you'll beat me with the stair rod."

"How did you know what I was thinking?"

"I could see you trying to lever it off with your foot. But they're harder to move than you'd think." He drew at his cigarette again, his hand cupped round the end.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

He considered her for a long moment, his grey eyes sharp and perceptive. "No harm in asking."

"Have you ever heard of Charon Malfais?"

Sirius shook his head. "Don't think so."

Julia's heart sank. "What about Yersinia Black?"

"Ah, now that rings a bell. I think she's upstairs."

"She's _what?"_

"Not in the corporeal sense obviously." He pinched out his cigarette and put it back behind his ear, stood up and held out his hand. "Come with me."

His palm felt hard and callused against Julia's. He led her upstairs to the first floor landing and through one of the double doors into a spacious, once-elegant drawing room. A fabulous chandelier hung from an ornate gilded plaster ceiling rose. Motes of dust disturbed by their entrance twisted in the diffuse light that drifted in through arched windows framed by faded green drapes.

"This is a beautiful room," she said. "At least it was. The chandelier is stunning."

"Do you think?" Sirius squinted up at it. "Rather baroque for my taste. Molly seemed to like it. Made us spend a whole day cleaning it last year. I should have given it to her."

One end of the room was dominated by a huge marble fireplace with a mirrored overmantel. The glass was heavily spotted and it had cracked from top to bottom. Ornate display cases, the contents indistinct behind the rippled glass, flanked the chimney breast. Antique couches upholstered in frayed and dirty silk, were arranged on an Aubusson carpet so dark with stains the pattern was indistinguishable.

On the wall at the other end of the room hung an immense antique tapestry. The light was too dim to see it properly but Julia knew what it was. "Bloody hell," she breathed. "It's real. It still exists!"

Sirius gave her a quizzical look and flicked his wand, " _Lumos._ " The chandelier flickered into life.

Julia walked the length of the room and stood in front of the tapestry. "This is amazing."

"The Great and Noble House of Black," said Sirius behind her. "Reduced to the miserable remnant of yours truly."

She shook her head in amazement and traced an embroidered branch with her finger, not quite touching the ancient threads. "This has been burnt here. And there too! What happened to it?"

"My dear departed mother liked to erase those who failed to meet her exacting standards," said Sirius. "She was under the impression that when they were not on here they no longer mattered. And who knows, perhaps she was right. I don't think she was the first to do it either. There's one up here too." He indicated another blackened hole on a higher branch. "I guess this is who you were asking about." His finger followed a line up from the burnt mark to the face of a woman wearing a severe dark headdress. "This is the lovely Yersinia."

Julia rubbed her arms as if she was cold. "I was rather hoping she had never existed. Where are you on this?"

"That's me," he said hooking his finger into a ragged scorched hole at the bottom and tugging at it.

"Careful!" said Julia

"Why?"

"Well . . . it's very old and delicate, and probably valuable."

Sirius snorted, unimpressed. "Valuable, my arse. Who'd want this monstrosity?"

"I'm sure somebody would. Did your mother do that when you were sent to Azkaban?"

He gave a harsh laugh. "Oh no, she removed me long before. When I was sixteen and went to live with the Potters. If she could, she would probably have reinstated me when I was sent to Azkaban."

"Sixteen! Oh no, Sirius, you were just a boy! How could she do that?" Julia felt a wave of compassion and put her hand out to him, but he drew back. "Sorry," she said embarrassed. "What a dysfunctional family you had."

"Happy families are all alike," said Sirius philosophically. "Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. Dear old Tolstoy." He sighed. "I suppose you'd better tell me what's going on."

"It's a long story and I'll need my books. Can we do it in here, tomorrow morning?"

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged. "If that's what you want. Tomorrow it is."

.

* * *

.

Sirius was thoughtful as he watched her climb the stairs to the second floor; part of him admiring her bottom as she climbed, and part of him thinking about what she had said. He had, he admitted, probably always thought that Muggles were—if not inferior exactly—at least disadvantaged. That's just how it was. Not having magic was a sort of disability, like not being able to see or hear or walk. Wasn't it? And yet this woman did not appear to think she was disadvantaged. Strange.

She had known about the tapestry too. It wasn't a secret, but how could a Muggle have known about it? What had brought her here? What had Dumbledore thought so important that a Muggle should be made privy to some of the more hidden and darker aspects of wizarding life. Who _was_ she?

.

He looked around; looked at the place properly for the first time in months, noticing the neglect and dirt. The blistered plaster with its flaking gilt: the blown, peeling wallpaper: the balls of grey fluff and dog hairs collected in the corners. It more than likely did smell, he thought. Apart from the rather sickly odour of Parma Violets emanating from the umbrella stand, he was too accustomed to it to tell. But Julia had said it was smelly and she was probably right. She struck him as a woman who usually was.

.


	7. When in Doubt, Go to the Library

.

Julia dusted off a tray and carried two cups of tea and a packet of ginger nuts up to the drawing room where she had already left Malfais' fragile book and her own notes on a grubby footstool. She did not have long to wait before Sirius slouched through the ornate doors wearing his usual irritable expression. He flopped on to a sofa, raising a small cloud of dust and dog hairs.

"Can you light a fire in there?" Julia gestured at the dusty hearth before starting to pour the tea.

"Anyone would think it wasn't glorious summer." Sirius waved his wand, and cheerful flames bounced up the chimney.

"It feels more like February in this house." Julia handed him a cup and the packet of biscuits. "Central heating. It's the future."

"Muggle biscuits." Sirius opened the packet with his teeth. "That's a novelty."

"To be be fair," Julia pointed out, "food is a bit of a novelty here."

"True," he acknowledged.

Julia sat down on another couch and rearranged the moth-eaten cushions. Something hard was digging into her hip. "What's this?" She pulled a small, flat object from where it was partly wedged in the upholstery. "Is it some sort of mirror?" She tilted it towards the light. "I think it's broken."

Sirius leaned forward and snatched the object out of her hand. "Yes, it's a mirror. There's nothing wrong with it and it's none of your business." As he spoke he stared at the dark glass as if trying to find something.

Julia wrinkled her lip at him. "No need to get your knickers in a twist."

Sirius slipped the mirror into his jeans pocket and sat back again. "I'm waiting. Go ahead."

Julia drew a deep breath. "Quite honestly," she said, "it's hard to know where to start."

"I find the beginning is usually a good place." Sirius stuffed a whole biscuit into his mouth and crunched.

"But where is the beginning exactly? I don't know. I'm not much of a storyteller myself, but this man was." Gently she unwrapped Malfais' book. "His name was Charon Malfais and he wrote an account of his family history. The snag is, he wrote it in runes." She indicated a fat writing pad, much interrupted with coloured post-it notes. "This is my translation."

Sirius choked on his biscuit, spraying crumbs on the carpet. "You can read runes?"

"Yes I can. A lot of old wizards' legal documents are written in runes so I had to learn. And your eating habits are atrocious."

"My eating habits are nothing to do with you. But I must say I'm impressed. I never mastered runes myself."

"That's because you spent more time farting about at school and getting into trouble than you did working," she said tartly.

"You might have a point," he admitted. "I'd still like to know how you did it."

"Well . . . I started with a writer called Tolkien."

"Ha! Good old Tolkien! He was one of our most popular history professors. Before my time, of course."

"I suppose he was a wizard too?" Julia shook her head. "They get everywhere."

"Well, naturally he was," said Sirius. "How else would he have known all that stuff about dragons and trolls?"

"You mean those stories are true?" Mouth open, she stared at him in disbelief.

"You'll catch a fly in there if you're not careful," Sirius pointed out helpfully.

Julia snapped her mouth shut and opened a smaller, spiral bound notebook. "Some years ago, when I was at university, I translated a number of unrecorded pages from Samuel Pepys' diaries. They had been concealed by some sort of charm, but because it didn't really work on me I was able to read them. The contents were very strange, but didn't mean anything to me until recently. It's quite a long story, are you ready?"

Sirius grinned and stretched out lazily on the shabby couch, leaning his head back and baring his neck. Sometimes the way he moved reminded her of Padfoot and she wondered what he would do if she rubbed his belly. The notion made her tingle and she suspected she was, yet again, blushing.

.

She concentrated on her notes. "The first entry is a very short one from September 1665," she said. "Pepys described receiving a letter from a friend of his." She began to read from the notebook.

 _"Having had today a letter which much worried me, I did go to see my friend, Malfais, finding the streets as near deserted as ever I did see them: but on every corner, it seemed, a purveyor of cures and preventives peddling false hopes. I_ _found my friend in a most unfortunate state, his young wife having succumbed to this vile plague._

" _He and his small daughter remain in good health, but he being so much grieved, I was unable to improve upon his mood. He tells me Nan will have no proper funeral for she was removed to the pit at Aldwych._

"The next entry was made about four months later in January, 1666," said Julia. "This time, Pepys was feeling rather guilty.

" _I had much neglected my dear friend Malfais, these last few months, so this afternoon I did visit and found him still in a most unhappy state of mind, dwelling much upon the loss of his wife. Such things he said did concern me very deep. I scarce know if I should give him credence or no, for though he has been my good friend and a man of honour whom I did trust these many years, yet I now suspect his mind to be disordered. He raves of ancient plots, of pestilence contained beneath the hallowed walls of St Wergrim's, and of Fiendfyre and murder. It seems his beloved daughter has been taken against his wish into the house of his uncle at Black Court and he is much distressed._

 _He said to me: Sam, believe me that my blood be besmirched, foul and hateful. I shall tell all of this evil plan, for secrets such as these must be exposed. I vow I shall see an end to this wickedness as soon as may be, though it mean great destruction."_

Julia looked up. "Are you still with me?"

"I'm a wizard, not an idiot," said Sirius.

She laughed, and was pleasantly surprised when Sirius did, too. It was a rusty, barking sound, as if it didn't happen very often.

"All right then," she said, "I'll carry on. There was another entry written in September of the same year, after the Fire of London had already started.

" _The fire in the city raging,_ _I had recollection of the conversation which I had with my friend Malfais some several months ago. My meeting with the King and the Duke of York at White-Hall being concluded, I besought a fresh horse and proceeded with great haste to his house. On my arrival found him absent but his servant there, who did give me a packet addressed in strongest terms for my sight only! Having fulfilled his purpose in conveying the package to me, the servant went thence in some hurry to Black Court._

 _Beset with anxiety for my friend and for the city I repaired home at once._

 _Upon opening the parcel, I found within—a book; and proceeded to read, though it is written in runes and did take me some considerable time in the deciphering. Such things as I did find there much disturbed me and should not be seen by any other, until mayhap it needs to be. Believing my friend beyond my help and fearing discovery of the book, I made urgently back to the deepest place wherein such objects may be safely stored, and hid it within._

 _Returned home before supper. And meanwhile being kept informed of the fire's progress by my wife and my maid, I much fear for the city._

"The final entry Pepys made about it was a week later.

" _The body of Malfais found in the midst of such destruction, yet with no mark upon him, giving rise to much unwelcome gossip, I enlisted the help of other friends to suppress such rumours. The destruction of the city within the walls almost complete, nothing of Black Court or the abbey of St Wergrim remain above ground. The family are said to be repaired to an estate some few miles north at Islington._

 _I believe Malfais has carried out his purpose according to his plan. Thus we should see no further outbreak of plague within my lifetime or that of my children or grandchildren. God willing, such things as should be undisturbed remain so till the end of time._

"And that brings us to this." Julia lifted up the larger book. "When I was working in the Ministry archives—"

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "You work in the Ministry?"

"Yes. There's no law against it, you know. Though some people think there should be. Anyway, as I was saying: when I was working in the Ministry archives I found Malfais' book hidden under a pile of old house-elf indentures. As soon as I looked at it, I knew what it was. This is my transcription. I'm going to read it to you.

 _"My name is Charon Malfais, and I was born to a noble family; an ancient one descended from the royal houses of Lyonesse, Hy-Brasil and Hyperborea and from the fierce hunters in the ancient woods. A family grown great in power, great in wealth; in arrogance; in evil. My father, Scorpius Malfais was from the noble family whose house is at ancient Sarum, and my mother Yersinia is daughter of that Most Noble family of them all—"_

"Ah, dear Yersinia," said Sirius brushing biscuit crumbs from his beard. "Now I know why you were so interested in her."

"Shush," said Julia. "Let me read it. _Rear'd in the belief of entitlement and superiority, I understood the responsibility brought by greatness. Forgive me, for I knew no better!_

" _The many times great grandfather of my mother, whose name was Wulfric Black, travelled with his companion Ahrimanius Slytherin in search of glory and knowledge and power. They visited first the frozen mountains and black stone deserts of magma and ice far to the north, then travelled long months to the east; to the lands of golden rivers, temples and dragons. There they found raging a dreadful plague which had near annihilated the populace: for a great many who succumbed to the sickness were dead of it within but a short time._

" _But they came to see that though of every ten who caught the sickness, nine would die, yet a small number escaped with but the slightest of maladies. And then also they recognised that it was those of wizard blood for whom the sickness was little more than mild discomfort. Moreover, the effect was such that upon recovery their magic had increased._

" _Being of curious disposition and by dint of much experimentation they found that the contagion survived within a mite which could live upon the blood both of vermin and men. Having gained this knowledge, they sought to afflict a number of rats with the disease and placed the rodents upon great trading vessels which sailed thence, far across the oceans to all the corners of the world._

 _'The pestilence travelled with merchant traders, with armies and pilgrims, with porcelain, spices and silk until it reached the cities of Byzantium, the plains and steppes of the Mongol lands and the seaports of Europe._

 _'So Wulfric Black and Ahrimanius Slytherin returned to their homeland and in the year of 1352, Wulfric Black built a palace suitable to his power and position, and also did endow a nearby abbey._

 _He forged new bonds of subjugation for the servant tribes. And he it was who began the weaving of the tapestry which contained therein the lists of fathers and of sons, and deeper still the key to the way of his great plan. It was his intention that the pestilence should be released again at intervals, and each time the wizard race should increase in strength. Those inferior and without the gift of magic should perish and fall forgotten._

 _When the time came for his body to be interred beneath the abbey walls, he had entombed with him the source of this pestilence. Should it remain undisturbed, it might be forever hidden and without harm; But should it ever be touched by one not of wizard blood it will release once again the great epidemic. A threat that may be averted only by one who holds the memory of blood taken from father to son._

 _From that time, Ahrimanius Slytherin dedicated his life to the learning and the teaching of magic, and his daughter married the first born son of Wulfric Black. And thus began this line of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, memory held in blood through the unbroken male line, now held by my mother's brother, my uncle Sirius._

 _But my pride was to be crushed, my foolishness revealed. For to the abhorrence of my mother and my uncle I fell in love with my Annie, my wife! My Nan, so innocent, and not of wizard blood! And at last I realised my error, my hubris! For my race is not that of wizards but of all mankind!_

 _My sweet Nan! Cold now, nameless in a pit. Dead of the plague broadcast by my own ancestor. And my little daughter taken away into my uncle's house._

 _It being clear to me that such wicked design should not continue, I have laid a plan. Though not of the direct line of sons from Wulfric Black, and it not within my power to destroy that cursed object, yet I will stop this evil for now. Mayhap in distant years a son of the sons of Black will renounce the pride of his forbears, and favouring the family of all mankind destroy that living remnant of Wulfric Black for eternity._

 _And I say to this son of Black: The key to the way shall be unlocked by the White Goddess and the secret will be held by the childrens' children of my servant. So I also say, but ask the keeper of the secret what is the way to the place of bones and instruction shall be given._

 _So my soul shall soon pass through the Veil and on the other side I shall see my sweet Nan again.'_

Julia closed the book. "That's where it ends. There isn't anything else."

.

* * *

.

It was odd that Sirius hadn't noticed before how the room smelt of soot. The chimney couldn't have been swept for at least fifteen years and even magical fires create smoke. What was it she had said? Was this some terrible waking dream? It wouldn't be the first and no doubt it wouldn't be the last. Yet the Muggle woman—Julia—was still there, holding her notebook. And she looked anxious.

"Pinch me," he demanded, holding his arm out to her.

"What?"

"Pinch me. I need to know this isn't the DTs."

She sniffed and obliged, pinching the back of his hand hard.

He winced and sucked at the red mark she had left. He was awake.

A wave of utter exhaustion swept over him. He leaned back on the sofa and put his arm over his eyes. "How many?" He could hardly even hear his own voice, it was so hoarse.

"Pardon?"

He cleared his throat and tried again."How many people died?"

"Please don't ask me that, Sirius."

He put his arm down and looked at her. "You know don't you? _How many?"_

She swallowed. "The first plague that came from the Far East, is said to have killed about half of the population of Europe. Maybe a hundred million."

 _"A hundred million people?_ That can't be right!" He thought about it. One and eight zeros. A hundred. Million. People. Dead. It wasn't his fault though. Was it?

She put her hand on his shoulder; a light, warm touch. He almost turned his face into it.

"Are you all right?"

No one ever asked him that. If he had not, over the years, developed the internal constitution of a Norwegian Ridgeback, Sirius thought he would probably have been sick. He shook her hand off. "No. Not really."

She frowned. "Come on," she said. "We need some more tea. Let's go downstairs"

.

* * *

.

He pushed his tea away. He needed a proper drink and retrieved the last of his father's Brobdingnagian brandy from the cupboard at the side of the range. Normally, he would have drunk straight from the bottle, but a secret part of him did not want Julia to see him do that. Instead, he poured two glasses of the amber liquid, slid one across the table to her and drained the other in a single gulp. It seared a comforting trail of pain down to his stomach.

Julia took a tentative sip and looked revolted. "Not for me, thanks."

"Please yourself," he said, and drank hers too. He took hold of the bottle and was about to refill his glass when he glanced at Julia.

She looked … what? Frightened? _Of him?_

He did not want her around. No, he definitely did not. But the thought that she might be afraid of him created a cold feeling that might have been shame. For once, good sense prevailed and he grudgingly shoved the cork back into the neck of the bottle and put it behind him, out of sight.

"How am I supposed to deal with this?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think."

"That's your trouble," he said, quite unfairly. "You don't think."

"You aren't Wulfric Black, Sirius," she said. "He's been dead for seven hundred years. You're what Malfais wanted. _The son of the sons of Black who will one day renounce the pride of his forebears_."

"I've never been what anyone wanted."

"That's . . . probably not true. But there's something else you need to know."

"Oh Merlin, no. I can't take any more."

"I'm afraid you'll have to."

"Wait a minute then." He retrieved the brandy bottle and refilled his glass. "Slainte," he lifted the glass mockingly. "Carry on."

.

Julia's lips thinned, but she continued. "About a fortnight ago, an area of ground near Cheapside started to subside and some very old structures were exposed. I believe it's the site of St Wergrim's Abbey—where Wulfric Black is buried. In two weeks they're going to start excavating it. But there is something in the crypt that will start another plague if it's disturbed by Muggles. The Black Death."

The brandy was making his eyes smart and his nose run.

Julia wrapped both hands around her own mug and looked at him over the top of it. "Somehow we've got to find whatever it is and destroy it before some unsuspecting Muggle archaeologist gets hold of it. That's what Albus sent me here for. He seemed to think you would be able to help."

Sirius turned away from her, feeling her gaze on the back of his head. He stared into the fire, letting the flames take on the image of James's face. _I need to talk to you, mate,_ he thought. James grinned and winked.

.

"You need the library," said Sirius.

"Library." Julia's eyes widened in surprise. "You have a _library_ in this house?

He did not answer, but stood, hardly swaying at all, and motioned for her to follow him. There would be no more hand-holding.

The small library was beyond the arch at the back of the first floor landing. Julia traced the inlaid ivory pattern on the heavy doors with a finger. "You like your snakes, don't you?"

"Not personally, no. It seems my ancestors were keen though. They represent eternity. The Ouroboros."

"I know that," said Julia.

The doors were jammed and protested noisily as he forced them open and stood aside in a gentlemanly fashion to allow Julia to enter. Her gasp of awe sounded more like a wail of despair.

Bookcases stretched from the floor to the lofty ceiling, accessed by a worm-eaten library ladder. Julia gave it a doubtful shake and looked as if she was about to say something, but she glanced at him and held her tongue.

He had not been in that room for—what?—twenty years at least. It smelt musty and much of it was coated with dust and mildew.

"I don't suppose you'd like to help me?" she asked.

"I would not." Sirius almost felt sorry for her but she had, after all, brought this on herself. And he needed to be alone.

He went back to the drawing room. It was always cold in there. The tall windows were east-facing and only saw the sun in the early morning. The rest of the time the room was dark and cheerless. He shivered and studied the tapestry. An unbroken line ran from Wulfric Black at the top, to the hole near the bottom where his own name had been burned out. Was that what he was? He stuck his fingers into the hole and made it bigger. That blood he had always been told he should be so proud of—that evil!—ran through his own veins. It explained why he made everything fall apart around him.

Turning his back on the tapestry he walked to the fireplace at the other end of the room. " _Incendio_." Fire flared up from the grey cinders. _Are you there, Prongs?_ he thought, kneeling down in front of the hearth. _What do I do about this?_ Staring into the dancing flames, he let his mind clear and his vision blur.

At last he saw James, serious but encouraging. Did James think he could do this thing then? James had always known better than he did himself what he was capable of. Then the face changed and it was not James he saw, it was Julia smiling at him, open and trusting. And behind her he saw his parents, dark and angry, always disappointed in him, and off to the side so deep in shadow he was almost invisible, Regulus. Regulus, who Sirius had never taken the time to know.

From the darkness behind them, another figure emerged, moving towards him. A young man, bewigged and dressed in the garb of a seventeenth century nobleman. His face was drawn in grief yet his grey eyes were alight with hope. He held out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of pleading, and opened his mouth to speak. But no sound came.

And then there was just the glow of the embers.

Sirius stayed where he was for some time until the fire was out altogether and his knees were stiff and sore.

.

* * *

.

Julia had lost track of time when Sirius astonished her by bringing a mug of tea. He sniggered. "You look delightful!"

"What?" She rubbed some of the dirt off a mirror hanging on the wall and peered into it. "Bloody hell!" she moaned. "I look like a witch. No offence intended."

"None taken. Hold still." He delicately removed a small spider from her eyebrow and set it free on the desk.

Julia felt as if little electric shocks prickled under her skin where he had touched her. To distract herself she pushed a pile of books to the back of the desk and dried the bottom of her cup on her sleeve before putting it down on the scuffed leather surface. "I haven't found anything useful at all. Where did the Black family live before they came here? Some of this material predates the house by centuries."

"All these houses were built in the grounds of a bigger house," said Sirius. "My great-great-however-many-times grandfather must have seen an advantage in selling leaseholds to Muggle developers. I think he liked the camouflage. Hiding in plain sight if you like _._ We never moved far."

"And before that?

"There's a map somewhere. I remember my father showing me." He investigated one of the shelves. "This is it, I think." He pulled down a large roll of parchment.

Julia unrolled the document and weighed the corners down with books and her mug. She peered closely at it. "It's so faded and stained, I— oh my!" Her eyes focused. "This is incredible. It shows the homes of all the main wizarding families in London in the seventeenth century! Where was the Black residence?"

"Um . . . about here somewhere." Sirius leaned over her. He was so close she could see the individual hairs of his beard, the pores of his skin, a pattern of small dark tattoos that traced the line of corded sinew in his neck.

He placed his index finger on the map, indicating a structure just to the north of the River.

She squinted at the faded writing and let out a sigh of recognition. " _Blaec Court!_ Of course. _"_

"And this is St Wergrim's Abbey, here." He put his finger on another point a little way off. "Let me think." He frowned in concentration for a moment. "Yes. Come with me."

He led her up to the next floor and along a dark corridor. This part of the house seemed even more derelict than the rest. Through open doors she glimpsed a disused bathroom, a sitting room with furniture swathed in covers, a bedroom with a bare four poster bed. This passageway, like the others, was hung with pictures and at the end was a grandfather clock. She liked clocks and went to look at it more closely.

Set into the clock face were two eyes. Idly she pulled the pendulum to one side and let go. It started to tick, and with each tick and swing of the pendulum the eyes flicked disturbingly from one side to the other. She laughed.

"For Merlin's sake!" Sirius exclaimed. "Have you lost your mind? For a supposedly intelligent woman you can be a complete twit. This house is full of things that could kill you, and I'm not exaggerating. You're lucky the clock's been decommissioned. Until a few months ago it fired nine inch bolts at anyone who got too close. I'd like to see you neutralise one of those."

"Ouch. Sorry," she said sheepishly.

"This is what I wanted to show you." He was standing in front of a picture as dark and grimy as all the rest. "Black Court." He summoned a light with his wand. The painting was a stylised late medieval representation of an immensely grand house with towers at all four corners.

"Gosh," said Julia, "they did want people to know how rich they were, didn't they? What about this?" She gestured to another smaller frame next to it.

"That's the abbey."

Carefully she blew the dust and cobwebs away from the faded charcoal drawing. "And who is that?" She pointed at a portrait of a severe-looking woman in a dark, high-waisted robe and wimple. The woman held a snake in each hand, the tail of each held in the mouth of the other so that they formed an unbroken circle.

"That's Saint Wergrim."

Fascinated, Julia studied it closely. "Saint Wergrim isn't in the lexicon of Muggle saints, I looked her up. What's she supposed to have done?"

"According to legend she could speak to snakes and could also take the form of one. It is said that she passed beyond the Veil in her serpent form and returned with the soul of a child of the family. I'm not surprised Muggles haven't heard of her."

"A lot of our saints seem to have talked to animals," said Julia. "Controlled the weather, made prophecies, fought dragons and and suchlike. I don't suppose we'd have batted an eyelid. But Saint Jude might be more appropriate in the circumstances."

"Why's that?"

"Because he's the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes?"

Sirius did not reply.

.

* * *

.

They retired to the kitchen, and while Julia made some sandwiches Sirius relit the stove and made a fresh pot of tea. For a few minutes he secretly enjoyed the domestic companionship.

Between bites of cheese and pickle sandwich, Julia mused on the puzzles they had to unravel, and the enigma of the tapestry. "I must be getting nearer, Sirius. I've just got to be! But there's so much I don't understand. There's something in the tapestry, I'm sure of it. But I can't see anything out of place." She sighed. "I'll just have to keep trying. Malfais has told us where to look, if we can only work it out."

But Sirius was not really paying attention. He wondered how she could possibly know he was a lost cause. And he was looking forward to the quiet night-time, when Padfoot could rest his head on her stomach again and feel her sensitive fingers in his coat.

.


	8. A Square Peg in a Round Hole

.

Julia spun round in alarm as a sucking _whoosh_ came from the marble fireplace behind her. A sheet of cold green flame leapt up the chimney and as it subsided, a pleasant looking, sandy-haired man stepped out on to the dirty carpet, brushing flakes of soot from his shoulders. He seemed taken aback to see her there and opened his mouth to speak but at that moment Sirius crashed through the doors, his face alight with the first genuine smile Julia had seen since her arrival. He looked younger and happier. An uncomfortable, indigestion-like sensation lodged under her ribs.

Sirius gave the visitor a friendly punch. "Remus! Good to see you, mate!"

Remus responded by wrestling Sirius into a half nelson. "Won't you introduce me to your friend?"

"Friend?" Sirius seemed disconcerted. He released himself from Remus's grip and looked round. "Oh. That's just Julia."

.

His dismissiveness shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. She forced a smile and went over to the two men, holding out her hand. "You must be Remus Lupin. I've heard of you. You're a bit . . . notorious, but you don't look as dangerous as I expected. Mind you, neither does he." She jerked her head in Sirius's direction. "I'm very pleased to meet you. My friends call me Jules."

Remus shook her hand. "My popularity precedes me," he said ruefully. "I'm happy to meet you too, Jules. Are you staying long?"

"I . . . I'm not sure. As long as it takes, I suppose."

"That sounds intriguing." Remus raised his eyebrows, inviting her to elaborate but a glance at Sirius's murderous expression made her think twice about replying. Remus followed her gaze. "Bit of a sore point, is it? There's a meeting of the Order tonight. The others will be arriving in an hour or so."

"Great!" Sirius's face lit up. "Have you got a mission for me this time?"

"Oh, come on, mate, it's not up to me!"

"But they'll listen to you. Just give me something to do!"

"Sirius—" Remus sighed heavily. "Let's go downstairs and talk."

.

The heavy door swung shut and Julia looked at it for a while, feeling sharply excluded. She was not welcome here, and not welcome in wizarding company generally, it seemed.

"Sirius." She said the word quietly to herself. She had been alone too long. She was too susceptible to a pair of grey eyes and broad shoulders and a general aura of misery. She had always been a sucker for a lost cause.

.

Remus poked his head round the door a few minutes later. "There's tea in the pot. Won't you join us?"

"Thank you." Julia got to her feet and followed him on to the landing. "That's very kind."

"Not really. Where I come from it's simple good manners." He grinned. "I, er . . . Sirius says you're—"

"A nuisance? Or a Muggle?"

"A Muggle. Sorry." He scratched his head. "I haven't met too many."

"Just work on the assumption that we're human beings," said Julia.

"How crass of me. That was an incredibly stupid thing to say. I'm really sorry."

"Apology accepted. It's nice to have company anyway." She glanced over the rail into the entrance hall. "I'd have thought Padfoot would come to see who was here."

Remus stopped and turned to her. "What?"

"Sirius doesn't want me around," said Julia. "He's made that abundantly clear. Padfoot is the only bright spot in this—grim old place. I think I'd have given up by now if it wasn't for him, he's such a sweetie! Do you know he comes and sleeps with me every night?"

"Does he now?" Remus pursed his lips. "Padfoot's a _sweetie._ I'll have to remember that."

"Is that so strange?" asked Julia.

"Well"—Remus leaned back against the banister—"I suppose I don't actually know, now I come to think about it. But . . . perhaps you shouldn't be too tough on Sirius. I know he's hard work and he doesn't behave like a martyr, but he seems to have taken it upon himself to shoulder the burden of guilt that isn't altogether his."

"Professor Dumbledore said Sirius would help me," said Julia. "But—I don't know . . . he doesn't trust me."

"I don't know that Sirius entirely trusts anyone," Remus told her. "And not without reason. Truthfully we all let him down when he needed us."

"Don't make me feel sorry for him," said Julia. "Life is complicated enough already. Why can't he leave the house?"

"The Dementors," said Remus simply. "They came very close to giving him the Kiss when he was recaptured at Hogwarts, and it seems to have given them some sort of . . . connection to him. As soon as he leaves the protection of the Fidelius Charm they can detect his—how can I describe it? Life-force—if you like."

"You mean the _Wyrd._ "

Remus cocked his head and eyed her curiously. "I do. I'm surprised you've heard of it."

"I'm full of surprises," said Julia drily.

"So it appears." Remus studied her without speaking for several seconds. "Anyway. Dementors," he said at last. "They seem to know Sirius is in London. I think Lucius Malfoy might have had a hand in that. They are restless and hungry—and they're close."

Julia shivered in sympathy. "He must feel as if he has exchanged one prison for another." She hesitated, then asked, "Remus, can you—can you tell me what happened back when—James and Lily Potter died? I read what was in the papers, but Sirius didn't do those things, I know he didn't. Dumbledore told me to trust him—and I do. I know here," she said, patting herself below her ribcage, "he's a good man. He's just making a fine job of hiding it."

Remus nodded and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his shabby robes. "Yes you should know. It will help you understand why he's so troubled. How much do you know of the War?"

She bit her lip. "More than you would think, probably, considering I'm a Muggle."

"When _You-Know-Who_ killed James and Lily and tried to kill Harry," said Remus, "everyone, including me, believed that Sirius had betrayed them by passing on the secret of their whereabouts."

Julia nodded. "I know. But how could you have believed that of him?"

Remus shook his head and studied his feet. "It was what all the evidence suggested. He hadn't done it, of course, but he had made our friend Peter the secret-keeper instead. He thought that _You-Know-Who_ would be less likely to suspect Peter of having the secret. But none of us knew Peter had already switched his allegiance. So although Sirius wasn't directly responsible, he holds himself to blame. He did what he did for the best of reasons but it resulted in the death of his best friend and he'll never forgive himself for that. I don't think he even wants to."

"What a mess," she said. "They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Oops." She gestured down the stairs. "Talk of the devil. As it were."

Sirius looked like thunder. "Talking about me, were you?"

Julia felt her face grow hot but Remus said cheerfully, "What else would we be talking about? Come along, Jules, we don't want the tea to go cold." He waved her ahead of him. She didn't dare to catch Sirius's eye as she passed him; she was sure he was thoroughly annoyed. "I'll make myself scarce later on," she said to Remus. "It will be nice to see some other people though, even if it's just for a little while. Why don't I make something to sustain you during your meeting?"

"I think that's an excellent idea, Jules," said Remus. "I'm sure everyone will appreciate it. Wouldn't you agree, Sirius?"

Sirius only scowled.

"I'll see what I can do," said Julia happily.

.

As she rummaged in one of the tall cupboards beside the range looking for a baking tin, Remus and Sirius sat at the far end of the vast kitchen table and began an involved conversation in low, urgent voices. They were interrupted by a sudden crash and an annoyed profanity from the direction of the front door. Remus and Sirius looked at each other. Sirius rolled his eyes and Remus pulled a face. "Tonks!" they said together and paused. They only had to wait a few seconds before the familiar strident tones of Sirius's mother began to howl.

 _"Shameful spawn of Mudblood! May crows gorge upon the eyes of filthy blood traitors!"_

Sirius and Remus headed out to the hall and Julia listened with interest.

 _"Useless weakling! Disgraceful blemish on this Glorious House! Let maggots eat you from the inside!"_

"Julia!" shouted Sirius. She ignored him and concentrated on weighing oats into the brass dish of an antiquated set of balance scales.

"Julia!"

She put a tin of syrup on top of the range to warm and emptied half a pack of butter and a scoop of sugar into a saucepan.

"Julia, for Merlin's sake!"

Without hurrying, she wiped her hands on a tea towel and made her way into the hall. "You called?" she asked, with a benign smile.

Sirius was flushed and sweaty. "Just shut the bloody thing up, will you?"

She tutted. "Haven't you forgotten something?"

"What?" he said.

"The magic word?"

"Magic word? For fuck's _sake!"_ He kicked the umbrella stand which was lying on its side several feet away from its normal position. It clinked and Julia wondered what was inside. " _Please,_ Julia, will you deal with my mother!"

"But of course," she said stepping towards the portrait. "Why didn't you say?"

Walburga Black's jaundiced gaze swivelled towards her and the portrait silenced mid-rant. The curtains swished smartly shut by themselves.

Sirius cleared his throat. "Ah, thanks," he said, as if the word was unfamiliar on his lips.

"Don't mention it." Julia beamed at him. "Happy to help."

Remus was grinning broadly and the pretty, pink-haired young woman who had just arrived looked faintly stunned. "Sorry, sorry," she kept saying, as she heaved the ugly umbrella stand back to the bottom of the stairs where it belonged. "Sorry. This smells like my granny Tonks's outside toilet. What have you done to it? And what just happened?"

"This is Julia," said Remus. "She's is staying here for a while. She likes to be called Jules. Jules, meet Nymphadora Tonks."

"Wotcher, Jules." The young woman shook Julia's hand. "Just call me Tonks, please!"

"I don't blame you," said Julia with feeling. "Nymphadora's a bit of a mouthful isn't it? I love what you've done with your hair."

Tonks's answering smile was wide and infectious.

.

The four of them went back into the kitchen, now fragrant with the sweet smell of warm syrup and melted butter. Tonks sat at the table and watched in fascination for a couple of minutes as Julia poured the liquid into the oats and mixed it up then spooned it into a shallow baking tin.

"I don't mean to be rude," said Tonks, "but . . . why are doing it that way?"

"Oh." Julia was taken aback. "I don't know any other way."

Tonks stared for several seconds then clapped her hands in delight. "Crikey, you're a Muggle! That's so interesting! My granny and grandad Tonks are Muggles too! You must let me help!" She jumped enthusiastically to her feet and knocked a chair over.

"It's fine, really," said Julia, sliding the tin into the oven before Tonks could get to it. "Perhaps you could find a couple of plates to put them on when they're done?"

"Yes of course. Where do you think I might find them?"

"Try the bottom of the dresser." Julia pointed. "Careful!" There was a sharp rattle.

"It's all right," said Tonks. "Nothing broken. A couple of small chips that's all. Hardly noticeable."

Julia poured another cup of tea and put it on the table. "Here," she said. "Sit down and have a drink. It might be safer."

"You noticed," said Tonks sadly.

"Noticed what?"

"How clumsy I am."

"I don't think you're clumsy," said Julia. "I think something is making you self-conscious."

Tonks's face went very pink and the ends of her hair turned all the colours of the rainbow. She looked down the table at Sirius and Remus.

"I'm so obvious," she said. "I've never been any good at hiding my feelings."

Julia followed her gaze. "Is it, erm, Sirius?" she asked casually.

"Sirius?" Tonks laughed so loudly that the two men turned to stare. She lowered her voice. "I know he's my mum's cousin and I like him and all, but, well . . . he's a bit of a basket case isn't he?"

Julia couldn't altogether disagree but she was unaccountably pleased at Tonks's answer.

Tonks looked down the table again. "Whatever are they doing now?"

Julia frowned in bafflement. "They appear to be arm wrestling."

"Arm wrestling?"

"A friendly competitive trial of physical strength. Usually restricted to adolescent Muggle schoolboys." Julia took the baking tray out of the oven, prodding the top experimentally. "These are done now." She marked the flapjacks into slices and left them to cool while she considered arm wrestling. Sirius had been just shy of his twenty-second birthday when he had been sentenced without trial, to an indefinite sentence in Azkaban. _Hardly more than a boy,_ she thought with a shock, as another unwelcome wave of compassion caught her by surprise.

Tonks was fascinated. "I wonder who'll win?"

Julia looked over at the two men. "Remus, I should think," she said. "He wants to impress you. Sirius doesn't really care."

The rainbow colours at the ends of Tonks's hair crept further up.

.

"That smells great, Jules," Remus called down the table. "Doesn't it, Sirius?" But to Julia's disappointment, Sirius only grunted. She prised the flapjacks out of the tin with a knife and divided them between the chipped plates

Tonks was soon followed by a number of other people; some arriving by the door and others through the drawing room fireplace. They congregated around the enormous kitchen table with much bumping and scraping of wooden chair legs on the stone floor.

"Will you do the honours, Sirius?" asked Remus.

"No." Sirius folded his arms.

Remus shrugged. "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Julia who is staying here while she does a job for Professor Dumbledore. Julia, meet the Order of the Phoenix. Some of them anyway." He began the introductions. "Alastor Moody".

Julia felt Moody's gaze as his hideous blue rotating eye fixed on her and looked directly at him. "What you see is what you get, Mr. Moody. Muggle through and through."

"So I see," he said, and kept his good eye fixed on her as he took a sip from a small hip flask.

"Mundungus Fletcher," continued Remus.

"Ah yes, Mr. Fletcher." Julia beamed at him. "We have met before. I recall a little local difficulty involving a jinxed watch at Petticoat Lane a few months ago?"

Mundungus looked shifty. "Don't recall."

"Kingsley you already know, I think?"

"Delighted to see you again, Julia." Kingsley stood and leaned across the table to shake her hand. "I hope you are making some progress?" Thankfully he didn't seem to need an answer.

"And Molly and Arthur, of course, need no introduction."

They both smiled at her and Molly said with a sidelong glance at Sirius, "I hope you are getting on all right here?"

"I'm managing," Julia said. "I'm having to make allowances, of course. The natives aren't always friendly."

Arthur gave a hearty laugh and a conspiratorial wink. Sirius looked furious.

She put two plates on the table, one at each end. "Flapjacks", she said. "Still a bit warm and soft I'm afraid." She flicked Sirius across the back of his hand with a tea towel as he was waving a third piece off the plate with his wand. "Don't try your silly tricks on me," she said, and moved the plate further away.

Tonks hooted in delight. "Sirius, you've met your match!"

"Fuck off, Nymphadora," he said, shooting a sticky crumb at her. She caught it in her mouth and stuck out her tongue.

The easy familiarity between the two of them—so different from the relentless, awkward bickering between herself and Sirius—made Julia uncomfortable. "I'll leave you to it now," she said. "I hope you have a productive meeting."

.

.

For a little while she sat on the stairs just below the first floor landing listening to the faint murmur of voices from below. She could hear an occasional tremble of laughter, an exclamation, the clink of glasses; now and then a magical crackle or pop. Sirius's voice raised in annoyance and she assumed his wish to see active service had been frustrated again. She felt bad for him, but at the same time she understood why the Order might be reluctant to use him. He had never been one for obeying authority or following orders. And of course there was the added Dementor problem.

Like him, Julia fitted nowhere, quite. Sometimes she felt like a piece from a jigsaw puzzle in the wrong box. She had never begrudged her brother his magical ability but the disappointment of not getting her own Hogwarts letter had never left her and she had tried to compensate by learning as much from him as she could. Too much, perhaps. Maybe she'd have been better remaining in a state of happy ignorance. After working so hard to fit into Ben's life, she was no longer altogether at home in the Muggle world either. If only he had lived—

She heard the kitchen door slam and footsteps heading towards the hall. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, she scrambled to her feet and hurried into the drawing room where the chandelier was still glittering overhead. Under the uneven flickering light she stared at the tapestry, walking in front of it from one side to the other. _The tapestry which contained therein the lists of fathers and of sons, and deeper still the key to the way of his great plan._ She squinted and looked at it through half-closed eyes.

 _The key to the way of his great plan._

She tried standing sideways-on and looking from the corner of her eye. Nothing. The only person who might be able to help was Sirius.

Depressed and lonely she went looking for Padfoot, but he was nowhere to be found. On the second floor at the front of the house, she thought she heard a movement inside one of the rooms and called his name. Something heavy crashed against the door with an unearthly shriek. Giving a shriek of her own she jumped back in shock and decided against investigating further. She would ask Sirius what was in that room, but perhaps not just now.

.


	9. The Meeting

.

Sirius licked his finger and used it to collect the last of the sticky flapjack crumbs from a plate. Perhaps Julia would make them again. Perhaps he could be a bit kinder. Perhaps he hadn't needed to make quite such a point of emphasising his indifference to her. He wasn't even sure who he'd wanted to prove it to. Her, or Remus? Or himself?

Kingsley rapped sharply on the table. "Ladies and gentlemen, can we call the meeting to order please!"

There were a number of throat-clearings and shuffling of bottoms on chairs until everyone was paying attention.

"We have apologies from Elphias, Dedalus, Sturgis, Hestia, Minerva and Severus—" Sirius snorted in derision and Kingsley shot him a disapproving look. "And from Emmeline who is currently working undercover on an animagus mission."

"I could have done that," said Sirius sulkily.

"Emmeline was best placed for the job in this case," said Kingsley. "We will, of course, bear you in mind for future missions."

"Yeah," said Sirius. "Of course you will."

"Albus has sent a report which forms the main focus of this meeting, but before we get to that, can we have some updates please? Remus, I understand you can apprise us of the current situation at Hogwarts?"

Remus cleared his throat. "Yes, thank you, Kingsley. Er, I went to the school last week—"

"You went to the school?" said Sirius. "You didn't tell me! I could have gone with you!"

"No you couldn't, Sirius, as you know perfectly well!"

"Excuse me," said Kingsley. "Sirius, please desist from interrupting. Remus, carry on with your report."

Sirius seethed quietly.

"I had a short meeting with Rubeus Hagrid," Remus carried on, "and he told me that Dolores Umbridge has the school more or less on a lockdown. She appears to be reporting to Minister Fudge only. Can you confirm that, Kingsley?"

Kingsley nodded. "That appears to be the case, yes."

"As you know, the ban on any practical teaching of Defence against the Dark Arts continues," said Remus. "With the exams commencing soon, I daresay we shall soon know how effective her ban has been. Apparently a number of students are vying for mischief-making supremacy in the void left by the departure of Fred and George Weasley. There is a degree of, shall we say . . . laissez faire, among certain of the staff where this is concerned. It seems to have become something of a war of attrition."

There was a ripple of amusement around the table and Molly looked as if she could not decide whether to be disapproving or proud.

Sirius broke in. "What about Harry's occlumency lessons?"

Remus bit his lip. "I have tried to speak to Severus about this, but he refused to give me an assurance that he would resume Harry's lessons."

"Bastard!"

"Sirius, please!" Kingsley said.

"I'm afraid I have no further information," Remus said. "The situation is rather obfuscated, but I believe that—at least for the time being—the students are safe in the school."

"Thank you, Remus. Arthur, have you anything to report?"

"Not a great deal, Kingsley. As you know, the Ministry are clamping down hard on Muggle-born employees and the few Muggles who work there have had their employment terminated without notice. That includes Julia, of course, but she doesn't know it yet." He grimaced.

Sirius frowned. _That was not fair_.

Kingsley turned to Mundungus. "Have there been any developments in the East End?"

Mundungus puffed his chest out with importance. "Chances are, you all know there's been a lot of reports o' dementor sightin's around the city?"

There were murmurs of assent. Sirius kept very still and hoped he looked impassive, though chills ran through him and a cold bead of sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades.

"Well we've been keepin' our mincers on a new office development in Canary Wharf. It's bein' built by a property developer, operatin' under the name of Riddle Enterprises Inc. It's goin' to be the headquarters of a business called—as it 'appens—TMR Communications. They're going to be providin' them new Muggle mobile tellingfones."

"Fellytones," interrupted Arthur.

"Whatever they call 'em, Arfur. Mad-eye thinks it's got summat t' do wiv the increased dementor activity."

Kingsley turned to Moody. "Alastor, can you add anything to that?"

Moody's eye rested briefly on everyone in turn until it appeared to get stuck and he pushed a finger behind it with a nauseating squelch. "Bloody thing," he muttered. "If what Dung reports is correct—and we believe it is—the prospect of You-know-Who having a foothold in Muggle communications is a serious cause for concern. The increase in dementor activity in London seems to be coinciding with a rash of violent crime and apparent suicides. I do not, I repeat, _do not!_ believe in coincidence. Constant vigilance, ladies and gentlemen. Constant vigilance!"

"Sirius, would you care to give us an update on how you and Julia are getting on?"

"I would not."

He thought Kingsley's patience was wearing thin. _Good_. Auror Shacklebolt was notoriously difficult to get a rise out of. Kingsley twisted his gold earring with controlled irritation. "Fine. Well done, Sirius. In that case, we come to the main purpose of this meeting. I have a detailed report from Albus, here. He took a small glass vial from his pocket, pulled out the stopper and placed it in the middle of the table.

A thin vapour began to drift upwards from the neck of the vial, thickened and materialised into the face of Albus Dumbledore, which hovered a couple of feet above the table beaming around at all of them.

"Good evening, all. My apologies for being unable to attend in person. For a number of weeks, we have been dealing with an attempt to cross a male Vietnamese Five-toed Imperial Dragon with a female Welsh Red. The flame of the Five-toed Imperial is more lethal and destructive than that of any other dragon by a considerable margin. Being able to call upon that resource would be an immensely powerful weapon in Voldemort's hands.

"Thanks to information received we apprehended the culprits and retrieved a clutch of eggs and the stunned male dragon. We owe Dedalus and Hestia a vote of thanks"—there was a murmur of agreement—"and I'm sure you will all be pleased to hear that their burns have nearly healed and they will be out of St Mungo's in a few days. Molly, would you be good enough to convey our sincerest thanks to Charlie? Without his expertise in dragon breeding patterns and his handling skills, I don't know what we would have done."

Molly looked pleased.

"Now I need to tell you about another threat which has reared its head. This is something I have long had a faint suspicion of, but I fear it is reaching fruition now. You probably will not be aware that over recent weeks there has been something of a spate of sightings of the so-called Loch Ness Monster?"

Arthur looked excited, but Sirius sneered. "For Merlin's sake, that's a Muggle fairy tale!"

Dumbledore turned to him, blinking his sharp blue eyes. "Indeed it is. Not only a Muggle fairy tale in fact. It is not widely known—as yet—but the increased sightings at Loch Ness have been accompanied by the discovery of the bodies of three cows, seven sheep, two dogs, a cat, and an angler. All petrified."

"Petrified!" exclaimed Molly.

"Apparently so. It is now a matter of some urgency for us to get a team up there to contain the situation. The recent experience at the school has given us valuable insight into the ways a basilisk may be tackled, but I have no doubt that it will not be an easy task. Doubtless there will be obstacles to contend with along the way. Dedalus and Hestia will be joining me as soon as they are able, but I am looking for two or three more volunteers. Not you, Sirius, I'm afraid."

Sirius had not even opened his mouth. He lost his temper. "Well if you think of any way I can possibly help, do let me know! What the hell? You won't give me anything to bloody do! You'll all sod off home in half an hour won't you, and leave me incarcerated here again!"

They thought he was useless. Worse. They thought he was a liability.

"Hey, mate," said Tonks looking sympathetic and giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder. "At least Julia's here!"

Sirius glared at her and stomped out of the meeting, to go upstairs and feed his resentment alone.

.

* * *

.

Some hours later, when Julia could no longer hear voices, or the scraping of chairs and slamming of doors, she went back to the kitchen and found Remus in there alone. She made both of them a drink and sat down at the table. "You've got a terrible rip in your robes. Can't you mend it?"

"Ah," Remus made a face. "It's something I never mastered very well, I'm afraid."

"I could do it for you the old-fashioned Muggle way. I always keep a sewing kit in my bag."

"Are you sure?" He looked surprised. "I don't like to put you to any trouble."

"It will be my pleasure."

Julia went up to her room and found her sewing kit. When she returned, she pulled a chair up to the stove and beckoned Remus over. "Come and sit by the fire while I work. It's lovely to have a civilised adult conversation." She threaded her needle. Remus shrugged off his robes and handed them to her.

Sirius slouched into the kitchen. When he saw what Julia was doing, his expression became sour.

"What are you keeping in the room on the second floor?" asked Julia. "I could hear something making a terrible noise, and it sounded as if the door was being smashed up."

"Never you mind!" snapped Sirius. "It's no business of yours, keep your nose out!"

"Steady on, mate," said Remus. "She was only asking a question."

"Asking bloody questions is all she ever bloody well does!"

The sharpness of unexpected tears caught Julia unawares. She cleared her throat awkwardly "It seems my short interlude of civilised conversation is at an end." She bit off the thread, handed Remus's robes back to him and got to her feet. "I'll leave you now."

Remus stood up. "I won't be here in the morning, Julia. I've enjoyed meeting you. Take care of yourself—and of him." He looked pointedly at Sirius who glared back.

"Him?" Julia sniffed disdainfully. "He doesn't need me to take care of him. You only have to look around to see what a good job he makes of it himself. Such a homely little place he has here. I hope we meet again, Remus. I have enjoyed our evening."

"I hope so too." Remus smiled at her. "Good luck."

.

* * *

.

Sirius sat down on the chair Julia had vacated and put his feet up on the range.

"That was nicely done," said Remus. "Now are you going to spill the beans? What's this big secret?"

Sirius thought about it. "I don't know how much to say, Remus. It's pretty—weird. What I will say is that some of my ancestors make my cousin Bellatrix look like a niffler kit."

"Blimey!" said Remus. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I bloody was. The long and short of it is, Julia's learnt of something very dangerous that one of my ancestors created, and I'm supposed to help her find it and destroy it."

Remus waited for more, but when it was not forthcoming, said, "You must be enjoying having some company though?"

"I don't want company."

"Are you sure? You're looking better. You don't look so—hungry."

Sirius sniffed. "She can cook, I'll give you that."

"I didn't mean that sort of hunger, exactly. But she's quite nice-looking too."

Sirius gave Remus a dirty look.

Remus slammed his cup down, slopping tepid tea over the side. "If you don't want company and you don't even like her, what's this Padfoot thing then? She doesn't know it's you, and she said you sleep with her every night! _Sweetie."_

Sirius was embarrassed and defensive. "She had no damn business—she's a bloody nuisance!"

" _No business?_ Sirius you aren't just fucking with your own feelings here! Just because she's a Muggle doesn't mean she's not deserving of respect! I like her, Sirius, and I don't want you to hurt her."

"Hurt her? But that's what I do best, Remus. Or had you forgotten?"

"Self-pity was never one of your more attractive qualities. Stop it. How do you think she'll feel when she finds out?"

"She won't find out, will she? Unless someone tells her."

Remus shook his head. "I despair. You're digging a pit for yourself. Don't expect me to come and pull you out of it. I've got to be going now, but please, Sirius, just think about what you're doing. Julia can help you, you know, but you'll have to let her. And you didn't give her time to finish mending my sleeve."

"Get Tonks to do it for you."

"That's not going to happen, is it?" Remus pulled his robes on. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a little Floo powder?"

"It's on the drawing room mantelpiece where it always is. I don't know why you even bother asking."

When Remus had gone, Sirius collected a fresh bottle from his father's rapidly depleting wine cellar and went to his mother's room to complain to Buckbeak, who never answered back or argued.

He thought Julia would miss Padfoot tonight. He hoped so. He hoped she would be thoroughly miserable. Like he was.

It was perfectly true that Buckbeak did not argue, or, in fact, disagree with him in any way; something he could not even say about Padfoot these days, but the conversation was distinctly one sided. Eventually the bottle was almost empty, it was getting light, and Sirius had made a decision.

He needed to make some things clear. The woman needed to know exactly where she stood. She must be made to see that this world was not hers and she should have a bit more respect. He would talk to her about this and make her understand these things.

.

* * *

.

Julia took a shallow, lukewarm and entirely unsatisfactory bath, and went back to her room damply dressed only in the shabby silk wrap which she had borrowed without asking, confident that Sirius would neither notice nor care. She found him waiting outside her door, particularly dishevelled and stinking of drink and cigarette smoke.

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "What do you want, Sirius?" She didn't wait for an answer and pushed past him into the bedroom. "I take it Remus has gone?"

He followed her in. "What the hell are you wearing?"

Julia's assumption had been wrong. "Oh. I'm sorry I—"

"'S positively indecent! What are you thinking, walkin' round like that with your tits hanging out. Anyone could be around."

" _Anyone_ meaning you? And I am perfectly decent, thank you."

"'Nother thing." His voice was harsh. "Keep away from Remus. I'm warning you."

"I beg your pardon? You're _what?_ " For a moment Julia was speechless with indignation, but then a boiling temper bubbled up from her gut. "What the hell, Sirius Black, gives you the right to talk to me like that? My private life is none of your business and neither is Remus's!" Infuriated, she gave Sirius a sharp poke in the chest. "Get lost!"

He caught hold of her hand and swung her round against the wall. "Don't ever do that again!" he snarled. "You misbegotten hag!"

"You arrogant pig!" She caught hold of the front of his shirt and twisted her hand into it, pulling him towards her. The back of her hand was against the hot, sweaty skin of his neck and she could feel his chest heaving. They were very close. So close that his whiskers tickled her face, his breath hot and moist. Julia stared into Sirius's hard eyes and saw herself reflected there.

"Go on then, Sirius," she whispered. "Be a man. I dare you."

He sucked in a sharp breath and lowered his head. For an unbearable fraction of a second Julia thought he was going to pull away.

"Sirius," she whispered, "yes, please—" She twisted her hands into his long hair and pulled his head down, taking his lip between her teeth. He made a sound in his throat like a cross between a howl and a snarl then savagely pressed his mouth hard to hers and pushed his tongue between her lips. _So this,_ she thought, _is what Sirius tastes like. Wine. Smoke. Desperation_.

The press of his erection was needy and insistent against her belly. Impatiently she tugged his shirt free, snapping buttons off in her eagerness to feel his bare skin against hers. She slid her hands over his fevered flesh, the ridges of his ribs, the tight flexing of his muscles: felt the frantic hammering of his heart, the fall and rise of his chest.

He ripped away her robe, cupping her breasts, his thumbs rasping across the tips. His sharp teeth nipped at her neck and collarbone as his hand searched lower. The fragile silk of Julia's robe was in tatters: his jeans the only thing between them. Trembling with lust and clumsy with haste, she fumbled with the zip until he pushed her hand aside and took over. Greedily she cupped the hot, hard, heaviness of him.

His fingers found the sensitive flesh between her legs and he muttered as he stroked. Her back arched and she nearly wept with desire. They spilled into an awkward tangle of limbs and loose clothing on the sagging bed, splitting the rotten fabric of the mattress which spewed gouts of dusty feathers into the air.

Urgently, she guided him into her, wrapping her legs around his hips. There was a brief moment of burning tightness, and then he was moving hard and out of control, his breathing harsh, laboured and fast. The loose bolts of the old bed rattled loudly in protest and the iron bedstead slid on the threadbare rug and bashed against the wall, gouging dints in the soft plaster.

Then Julia felt a warm, liquid rush in her belly and Sirius was shaking and sobbing into her shoulder.

When he had stilled, she put her hand to his face and stroked his cheek. It was wet. "Sirius?" she said, curious.

"Bloody hell," he groaned. "Oh bloody hell."

"Sirius, what—?"

For a second he looked at her, his expression lost and empty. Then, averting his gaze, he withdrew, rolled off the bed, pulled up his jeans, and left without saying another word.

Tears of humiliation and hurt burned in Julia's eyes. The morning light seeped through the fly-blown window blinking on the pale down that turned in the air and settled silently on the floor. She straightened herself up, picking damp curls of feathers from her mouth and feeling sticky, raw, and ashamed.

.

.

* * *

.

Sirius was undone, untethered, unfastened. In his mind's eye he saw Julia's face again, her eyes warm with compassion and hope; turning dark with hurt. Then it was James's face he saw, and James looked . . . disappointed. _Mate. Oh, mate. What have you done now?_

 _._

.


	10. Portraits in the Attic

.

Julia sat alone at the kitchen table and shed a few miserable, self-pitying tears. Of all the stupid things she had ever done in her life, this morning's reckless provocation of the unstable Sirius might have been the stupidest. She felt dirty and cheap: and nagging at the back of her mind was the knowledge that she hadn't come prepared for this and had not made the slightest effort to protect herself from any consequences.

A cup of tea was what she needed at that moment but the stove was cold and she felt unequal to the task of lighting it. Instead, she drank the last of the milk which was just starting to go sour.

What on earth would she say to Sirius if he came in? Did she want him to? And where was Padfoot? The dog might not be able to give her any advice but at least she would be able to admit to him what an idiot she had been. To bury her face in the rough fur of his neck. To feel wanted.

.

The newspaper she had folded into the dresser drawer was still there, undisturbed. Now she took it and opened it out onto the table. Sirius silently screamed at her from the front page. His face: wild, pallid, almost skeletal, was unrecognisable from the strikingly good-looking youth who had been notorious for his varied and adventurous sexual exploits. Exploits which were—if the young witches Julia had known in those days could be believed—good-natured and efficient, with no hint of any messy emotional entanglement. Someone—it might have been Emmeline, who had been as close to Sirius as anyone except James—once told her that Sirius had deflowered upwards of fifteen young witches and managed to remain on good terms with all of them. Which was, Julia supposed, an achievement of sorts. But his reaction this morning had shocked her. What had happened to that youth on his interrupted passage to manhood? He had not even reached his twenty-second birthday before he had been sent to Azkaban: the horrors of which place seemed almost indescribable. Even Arthur, usually so forthcoming, had been vague and evasive about the workings of the prison when she had asked.

Wizards were positively medieval, she thought. Did the rich ones pay for special privileges like in the jails of olden times? Yet Sirius, as wealthy as he was, seemed to have had no one who even cared. Had anyone visited him? Had everyone truly believed him to be capable of what he was said to have done? He might, she admitted, be capable of it now. But back then? She thought not.

Then three years ago he had escaped. With no sensible explanation for how he had avoided the Dementors, consensus was that he'd had outside help, and possibly inside help too. But the fact remained that he had made his way—apparently alone and on foot—from the North East coast to the South of England. For all his apparent fragility he must be a man of iron will.

If Sirius could walk from Flamborough Head to Little Whinging, Julia reflected, surely she could light the range. She pulled herself together and went to fill the coal bucket.

.

For the rest of the day Julia saw no sign of either Sirius or Padfoot and had to conclude that they were avoiding her. Sirius, she understood, but Padfoot too? She stood at the foot of the stairs and called him, but he did not respond. It was illogical, but she felt betrayed by his absence and went looking for him. She stopped outside the room where she had heard something make a terrible screeching noise the previous day. Was that talking she could hear inside? _Talking!_ Was someone else there? She pressed her ear against the door. No, it was only Sirius's voice she could hear and she could not make out the words but he seemed to be engaged in an argument with himself.

He hadn't been downstairs all day. Had he eaten anything? Was he still drinking? Tentatively she knocked and turned the knob but was answered by a deafening crash close to her ear as something hit the door.

Shaken and upset but in need of something to do, she put her torch in her pocket and wandered morosely up into the top floors of the house. A narrow stairwell at the end of a dark uncarpeted corridor on the fourth floor must, she guessed, lead to the attics. At the top she found a low door which protested loudly as she entered. Brushing cobwebs away from her face, she switched on her torch.

There was the expected jumble of dusty, discarded furniture, boxes, trunks and pictures, the occupants blinking sleepily in the unexpected light. A dilapidated cupboard rattled ominously at her side and in no mood to ignore it, she gave it a bad-tempered kick. The rattling stopped abruptly and a tingling at the base of her skull eased though she still had an itch behind her ear. She stopped and listened. Below the squeaks and rustles of small rodents and the ticking of wasps and beetles, she could feel the lifeblood of magic running in this house. In the bones of its walls and floors; in the arteries of its beams and rafters.

Cautiously she opened a few drawers and boxes but found only old clothes and piles of crumbling newspapers. Nothing she could see by the feeble light of her torch seemed obviously out of place. Not knowing what she was hoping to find, she pulled a tattered cloth off a stack of paintings and studied the top one. It was a rather poorly executed Victorian portrait of a slightly snout-nosed house-elf, and there were some short lines of text painted on it. She dusted the canvas with her sleeve and read it.

 _'In generations' service held, With chains of magic strong and cold, The servants children born to serve, This glorious house of power holds.'_

As miserable as she was, she could recognise bad poetry when she saw it. She pulled the painting forward to see what was underneath. It was another house-elf portrait, but rather older. There was something of a family resemblance to the first picture and again there were some lines of text painted on the canvas.

 _'A loyalty beyond compare, In secret bonds subservient, This ancient noble house of Black, To serve in all existence spent.'_

An amorphous idea was beginning to form in the back of her mind. She looked at another; this one appeared even earlier.

 _'The pact of bonds forged deep and hard, In loyal long servility, For ancient secrets held in trust, The double-headed serpent sees_.'

The paintings were a chronological record of the Black family house-elves. They put her in mind of the revolting shrivelled heads mounted along the stairs. She squatted down with her chin on her hands and thought hard. She needed to speak to Sirius about this.

.

With renewed determination she headed downstairs again and knocked at the door of the room she had heard him in earlier. Another piercing squawk answered her. What _was_ he keeping in there? She was trying to summon the courage to look inside when she caught sight of his back disappearing down the corridor.

"Sirius!" she called, running after him and jamming her foot in the door he was trying to shut. "I've got to talk to you. If you crush my foot you'll only have to fix it again."

He let go of the door with a long-suffering sigh. She stood before him with her hands on her hips. He looked grumpy and scruffy and reeked of alcohol fumes. Refusing to meet her gaze he stared at the floor by her feet.

"I've just realised something. But look, I'm sorry . . ." Then he did look at her and she was horrified by the lifelessness in his eyes. "Oh Sirius—" she stepped towards him but he recoiled.

It hurt as much as if he had struck her; her throat constricted. "Fine," she said tightly. "That's clear enough." She pushed past him into the foetid room, wrinkling her nose. "Bloody hell, this is revolting. It's like a doss-house." She picked up a half-empty bottle and sniffed at it suspiciously. "Firewhisky! For goodness' sake, Sirius!"

"Give that to me!" he demanded.

"No," she said, "not a chance."

"Bloody well give it back!" he shouted, lunging unsteadily at her.

She sidestepped him. "Over my dead body!"

"That sounds like a bloody good idea!" he hissed, snatching again at the bottle. This time Julia overbalanced and fell against the bedpost cracking her wrist again. She cried out, and Sirius looked horrified and ashamed. "Damnation! Here, let me—"

He reached for her arm but embarrassed by the tears of pain and anger she could not control, Julia twisted away and lashed out. "You're nothing but a miserable bully! A sad, pathetic excuse for a man! Does it make you feel better to pick on someone smaller and weaker than you? I thought better of you, but it seems I was wrong." She knelt, nursing her wrist and looked up at him. "You'll be no use to Professor Dumbledore or the Order or anyone else if you're dead because your liver's exploded."

"When I want your fucking opinion, I'll fucking ask for it! You're not wanted here. Never have been, never will be!" Sirius clenched his fist and punched the wall so hard it left an indentation speckled with blood.

Julia was shocked. "Sirius! Stop! Please! You'll hurt yourself!" She scrambled to her feet and tried to catch his arm but he flung her off.

His narrowed eyes were like slivers of ice. Viciously he sent the half-empty bottle crashing into the messy fireplace where it shattered, sending a spray of mixed soot, firewhisky and shards of glass flying in all directions. Then, head bowed, he sank to his knees and groaned, "What a mess! Merlin, what a fucking mess!"

Julia could only agree. Shaken, she knelt beside him, but did not touch him; she did not dare. One side of his face was illuminated in the evening sunlight but the other side was deep in shadow. He was in danger of being consumed by the darkness within him. His misery enveloped him like a cloak.

"You can't go on like this." She stood up and looked unhappily down at him. "Have I done this? I'm sorry. I was stupid." Unable to think of anything useful to say or do, she sighed and left the room.

.

Despondently, she packed her rucksack. On an impulse she went down to the library and looked at the map which was still laid out on the desk, still weighted at the corners with a couple of books and the unwashed mug. _Should I_? she wondered. It was probably priceless. Would Sirius think she had stolen it? Would he even notice _?_ _Probably not,_ she thought, pushed the books aside and rolled it up.

She left the dog food and remnants of cake on the kitchen table where they would easily be found and wrote a short note. _I have borrowed the map,_ it said. _Sorry I didn't ask first. I will see it is returned. J._

 _Well_ , she thought _, I can't do much more than that,_ and left the house, resisting the urge to look back.

.

* * *

 _._

 _Was it her fault?_ Sirius reached out with his hand as if he would be able to feel the emptiness surrounding him. As if he might melt into it.

No, it wasn't her fault. As usual, it was his.

He was unravelled, unspooled, unfastened, unfolded, unsafe.

As she walked away into the dusk he stood behind the tattered curtain and watched. He didn't want her to see him there when she looked back, but she disappeared from sight without looking back even once. He waited some time longer for her to return, but she did not, and after a time he slid down the wall and sat on the floor.

Sex. It had been fun once. It had been freely given and easily taken. He had been loved; it had seemed only right and proper that he would be. He had always loved his partners—albeit temporarily. But he had never truly been _in_ love as far as he could tell. Popular opinion had held that his heart was hard: untouchable. Perhaps popular opinion had been right. His youthful rebellion had been sincere enough, but eight hundred years of expectations are not easily cast aside, and he had never forgotten the obligations laid on him by his ancestry. His birthright. One day he would probably have married a well-born witch and been happy enough.

He had envied what James and Lily had. He had enjoyed being a godfather. But James's death had shattered him and continued to shatter him every day. And Azkaban had hardened him and made sex a commodity to be traded: for protection, for food, for a smoke, for a pair of arms around him while he slept. Now he didn't know what it was for.

 _Prongs?_

James was there, but he was not approving or disapproving; he was dead. Sirius closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. In, and out. In, and out.

After dark, he wandered the dusty corridors of the upper floors and Padfoot hunted, though his heart was not in it and the rats were safe that night. As day was breaking he returned to the room at the front of the house and sat on the floor leaning against the wall. Next time he woke with a crick in his neck, the sun was high in the sky.

She would be back by now, wouldn't she? She was not going to stay away, was she? She had a job to do. Would she abandon him? No, not _him_ – _It!_ Surely she hadn't believed the things he had said to her? _What had he said?_ He didn't want to remember. Remembering made him nauseous.

Perhaps she was in the kitchen. He would be casual. He would pretend nothing had happened. He would light the stove and make her a cup of tea. Maybe she would bake a cake.

But the kitchen was cold and deserted. There was no residual warmth in the range and a short note lay on the table. _I have taken the map,_ it said. _I will see it is returned._

There was no need for her to come back at all.

.

After retrieving the last half-dozen bottles from the wine cellar he went back upstairs and looked out of the window, just in case she was, even now, returning, but he recognised no-one on the street below. He opened one of the bottles and took a deep, fortifying gulp, then another. Anger he could handle. Anger was familiar. It was comforting. It was strength. But there was no anger in regret and shame.

He clenched his fist and punched the wall again, feeling the crunch and a sharp pain in the already damaged bones of his hand, and grinned with fierce satisfaction. Over and over, with both hands, he pummeled the wall, taking perverse pleasure in the pain and damage both to the house and to his flesh.

— _Sad, pathetic excuse for a man—_

Then he beat his head on the wall until he was bleeding; and when that no longer worked beyond making him dizzy, and he could still hear her voice.

— _Sad, pathetic excuse for a man—_

He picked a shard of glass up from the floor and cut a slow, careful slice into his forearm, finding a strange peace in the sight of the blood that welled up and ran down his hand, dripping from the end of his finger.

.

* * *

.

His limbs and clothes were covered in blood. There was blood and vomit on the floorboards and carpet, and blood splashed on the walls, and blood and snot and tears smeared on his face and hands. His throat was sore from screaming and he had lost his voice. At last, when the pain in his mind and his body had merged into the same thing and sour bile burned the inside of his mouth, he passed out on the floor.

.


	11. Lines on the Landscape

.

Julia's flat was stuffy and rank from a damp dishcloth she had left in the sink. She opened the windows and balcony door and leaned on the rail looking out over the playing field below. Darkness was falling and a group of teenagers had congregated around the swings with a portable hi-fi. Laughter and low, tuneless throbbing drifted through the damp evening air.

Her record of achievement in the week since she had met Professor Dumbledore was, she had to admit, abysmal. She had managed to alienate the one person she really needed on her side, and probably ruined any chance of solving the problem of Wulfric Black's sinister legacy. Her head ached, and her thoughts were disorganised, mixed up with misery and guilt.

She took a sleeping pill and went to bed, allowing herself to slip into a shameful mire of despondency, no longer convinced that her impulsive decision to leave the house on Grimmauld Place had been the right one. However hard she tried to persuade herself she had left to spare Sirius's feelings, she knew she had really run away to spare herself the rejection in his eyes; afraid of the unexpectedly powerful feelings she had for this difficult, angry man. She had not said goodbye to Padfoot either, and she missed him dreadfully.

For the next two days she watched old black and white films and daytime television chat shows with the sound turned as high as she dared to drown out the nagging voice in her head. She cleaned cupboards and ate strange and unsavoury combinations of food from unlabelled packets at the back of her freezer. But in the anxious early hours of the third day, she lay in bed with indigestion, fretting, and knew she had let everybody down. The terrible emptiness she had seen in Sirius's eyes bothered her. His random cruelty was like that of a wounded beast blindly thrashing about, trying to bite anything that came within reach and ready to gnaw off its own foot in an attempt to escape. He seemed so fragile she was afraid of what he might do.

.

As soon as she could, she made her way to Whitehall and the dingy public toilets. She balanced in the toilet bowl, held her nose with one hand, and reached up with the other to pull the chain. It had taken several weeks and much encouragement from Arthur before she had mastered the art of flushing herself into the employees' entrance. Even now she sometimes arrived at work with wet feet.

Arthur opened his office door. "Julia, what a surprise! Come on in." He looked around a little furtively then ushered her in, closing and locking the door behind her. "Don't want to be disturbed," he explained. "I'm glad to see you, but I'm afraid I have some bad news." He pulled out a chair in front of his desk. "Take a seat."

Julia thought her heart had stopped beating and sat down heavily. "Oh, Arthur! It's not Sirius?"

Arthur looked bewildered. "Sirius? Why on earth should there be anything wrong with Sirius? No, I'm afraid it's closer to home than that. Here, have a drink". He waved his wand and a cup and saucer rattled through the air and settled on the desk in front of her. "Lapsang Souchong."

She took sip of the clear, smoky tea. "What's up?"

"It's these blasted changes in the management," said Arthur unhappily. "Any Muggles who work at the Ministry are to have their employment terminated. And I'm afraid you're the only one."

"Ah." Julia found she was not surprised. "I'm surprised they hadn't caught on sooner. She swallowed a lump in her throat. "When do they want me out?"

"I've told them you're on holiday, so if you can avoid being noticed on your way out, it will buy you a bit of time. I expect Kingsley is keen for you to wrap up this tricky"—Arthur waved his fingers—"Wulfric Black business."

"You won't obliviate me afterwards, will you?" Julia laughed.

Arthur looked uncomfortable. "That isn't why you came is it? How can I help?"

"No one can overhear can they?"

"Just a moment. _Muffliato._ " Arthur waved his wand and the air became oddly thick and quiet.

"The other day," said Julia, "after your meeting, Sirius was particularly bad-tempered."

Arthur nodded. "He did seem rather on edge. Even more so than usual perhaps. We have discussed returning him to active service. But it's an impossibility at the moment, and even if he could safely leave the house, he . . . might not be altogether . . . dependable."

"He's under the impression you all think he's useless."

"Oh dear." Arthur tutted and creased his brow. "I know he is frustrated. Unfortunately, there is no easy answer."

"We had"—Julia hesitated—"we had an argument and I left. But I'm not sure I should have done. He was in a terrible state. Depressed I think, and drinking far too much. I'm worried he might do something . . . stupid. Do you think you could ask someone—Remus maybe? To check he's all right? I'd never forgive myself if anything happened."

"Try not to worry, Julia," Arthur said patting her knee. "I know Sirius can be difficult."

"That's an understatement," she said with feeling.

"Quite so," Arthur agreed, "He was always a little volatile, but he survived twelve years in Azkaban. He's made of strong stuff. Stronger than you think. Don't underestimate his resilience."

"Thank you, Arthur," she said with relief. "That's what I needed to hear. I'll make myself scarce now. I'll go out through the D3M. No one will pay any attention to me there. Take care of yourself, won't you, and give my love to Molly."

"I will," he said warmly. "Good luck."

.

* * *

.

 _The Black Death in Europe and Great Britain_ was due to be returned to the library so she removed the scraps of paper she had been using as bookmarks and put it by her coat so that she would not forget to take it with her. Underneath it had been a slim volume bound in shabby green leather. Nostalgically she leafed through the pages, finding the archaic language as intriguing as ever.

.

.

"What does that mean?" she had asked. " _Shadow Magic?_ "

"Well, I don't know, JuJu," Ben had said, laughing and messing up her hair in the way he knew infuriated her.

"It says: _Shadow Majicke knoweth no command. Cold iron hurteth it and loadestone maketh it burn._ How can you not know what it is?"

"I swear you know more about this stuff than I do, JuJu. Can you take my N.E.W.T.s for me?"

.

.

Blinking back incipient tears, she switched on the new computer she was still rather frightened of. She had an abiding—if irrational—fear that she would press the wrong button and accidentally delete the internet or start a war. But she had spent several evening classes learning about spreadsheets and databases and now might be a good opportunity to put her lessons to use.

For several hours, interspersed with frequent cursing, she entered every bit of information she had collected. It was getting late by the time she had named and saved all the files on to the hard drive.

She unrolled Sirius's map out on the floor and placed various items of crockery on the edges as paperweights. As far as she could tell, it was accurate. She unscrewed the powerful anglepoise lamp she kept on her tiny work desk and clamped it to a chair using a pile of heavy books on the seat as a counterweight.

The main streets, bridges and rivers seemed to be in the right places, but there were other features she did not recognise. She rummaged through a bookcase and unearthed a modern map of the city for comparison. Nowadays a road ran right across what had once been Black Court. It confirmed her theory that the collapsing car park was on the site of the ancient abbey, but that did not help very much. Sneaking through the barriers and climbing into a hole in the ground without knowing what was down there, what she was looking for, or what she would do when she found it seemed a recipe for disaster. Though if she couldn't devise a better plan it might still come to that. Discouraged, she pulled the lamp closer. There was a railway station nearby. Might there be another way into the underground crypt? Peering through a magnifying glass she found faded and indistinct lines she hadn't noticed before. What they represented she didn't know, but there was definitely a meandering line between the Court and the Abbey.

A site visit was called for. Maybe there would be something that wasn't shown on the map. It was a long shot, but she was otherwise devoid of ideas.

.

.

Early next day she ventured forth wearing a sturdy pair of walking shoes. She took the bus for the first couple of miles then walked the rest of the way, finding the site surrounded by high sectional steel site fencing. It was the end of the morning rush hour and a number of people were inquisitively peering through the mesh.

A familiar figure lurking among the spectators at the opposite side of the site met her gaze with a distinct look of alarm. _Mundungus Fletcher?_ What was he doing there? He melted into the crowd and when she tried to find him again, there was no sign of him. Then, as she had hoped, she saw someone she knew. "Hey, Tim!" she called.

A man in a hard hat and high-vis vest turned at her shout and came to the fence. "Jules? Good to see you! What are you doing here?"

"Just curious. I've been working on the documentary records of the site."

"I didn't know that. We've been told it may be the foundations of an old Abbey destroyed in the Great Fire. Strange how no one seems to have known about it."

"Isn't it?" she said. "Do you think I could get in to take a look?"

"Sorry, Jules, not a chance. It's in danger of caving in. No-one can go down there at the moment. We've got security and everything." He gestured to a handsome German Shepherd which was leading a bored-looking security guard around the perimeter, pausing every so often to sniff at something.

"That's unusual," said Julia. "What do they think is in there?"

Tim shrugged. "Don't ask me. He just turned up a couple of days ago. Said he was from the Council. Not very talkative. His eyes glaze over if you ask him anything. Nice dog though."

"Not to worry," said Julia. "Thanks anyway, Tim. I'll leave you to it. Take care."

She bought a tired-looking sandwich from a corner shop and found a bench to sit on. It was scratched and gouged with years of graffiti and idle vandalism. She tried to imagine what the place must have been like three or four hundred years ago. There was nothing left above ground from that time. Even the churches had been built afterwards.

 _Gather ye rosebuds while ye may_ , she thought and sang the song under her breath. " _Old time is still a flying. And this same flower that blooms to-day ._. ." On a whim she took her marker pen out of her pocket, and overwrote several libellous personal insults and crudely drawn male genitalia with the words to the last line of the song, embellishing it with the little calligraphic flourishes she liked to use on Christmas and birthday cards. She slipped the pen back into her pocket.

After her lunch, she took the Underground to the station nearest to where she thought Black Court would have been and rode the escalator up to street level.

She walked until her feet were sore, crisscrossing the area she thought would have been the site of the Court. Nothing looked out of place and although she tried as hard as she could to feel what she thought of as her 'Magic Itch', found nothing out of the ordinary. As the afternoon rush hour began to swell she gave up for the day and made her way home.

In the fading daylight, she sat on the balcony with her feet in a washing up bowl filled with salty water, eating a family size bag of crisps and calculating how long she had left before the archaeologists would start their dig. Her lack of progress was both depressing and frightening. She needed to make a breakthrough, and soon.

.

.

* * *

.

.

Sirius had no idea how much time had passed when he finally pulled himself together enough to heal most of the injuries on the outside of his body. At last, swallowing the remaining vinegary dregs of wine, he crawled naked into Julia's bed and buried his face in the pillow where the faintest trace of her scent still lingered. He did not know how long he stayed there but day and night circled around him, hardly noticeable except that sometimes when he opened his eyes it was light, and sometimes it was dark.

In the distance, he thought he heard the _whoosh_ of someone coming in through the fireplace but he did not care enough to investigate. Whoever it was could come and find him.

Whoever it was, did. It was Remus. And he brought coffee with him. Dark and bitter but adulterated with something sharp and aromatic. Ruthlessly he made Sirius drink it, at times almost forcing it down his throat, until at last Sirius could see about him. Bloodstained sheets were tangled on the bed and the blankets were piled in drifts on the floor. Everything was covered in feathers and he was clutching the tattered remains of Julia's silk robe. Humiliated, he shoved it under the pillow and sat up on the side of the bed, keeping his head in his hands to hold it still and stop it falling off.

Remus was sitting in a chair watching him, anxious and disapproving. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Sirius tried to think. No, he did not.

Thankfully, Remus did not appear to expect an answer. "Arthur asked me to come and check up on you."

"Arthur?"

"Julia went to see him. She was worried about you."

"Worried?" A tiny ember of warmth sparked somewhere deep inside.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say?" said Remus. "He reassured her, obviously. Told her not to worry. Told her how tough and resilient you are."

"Hm. Thass rite. Tough and relizent," said Sirius. "Imean rezilent. Move along. Nothin' to see here."

"He was concerned enough to raise the alarm. And she was right to be worried, wasn't she? I wonder that it has taken this Muggle woman you so despise, to show us what should have been bleedin' obvious. You need help, Sirius!"

"I don'. Need help." His voice was hoarse, his throat raw. "Whass she know? 'S only a bloody Muggle!" The words tasted bitter and false.

Remus looked at him with dislike. "Sometimes you sound like your mother, or your cousin Bellatrix. Listen to yourself, you blockhead! What does that mean? She can't do magic. Big bloody deal. I can't mend my own clothes. And _you—!_ You don't even seem able to feed yourself! It doesn't make her useless. Or do you think it does?

Sirius was unable to compose any sort of intelligent response.

He heard someone else arrive by the front door. _Who the hell is it this time?_ he wondered wearily. Why couldn't they just leave him alone?

Remus rested his head against Sirius's. "You're my friend, Sirius. I care about you, but you are a prize fucking idiot. I've got to go now. You've got another visitor. Put some clothes on and go downstairs. Please."

.

* * *

.

The visitor was Professor Dumbledore. He stood in the kitchen by the dusty range and looked down at Sirius, who was sitting at the table, dropping bits of tobacco all over the place because his hands were shaking too much to roll a decent cigarette.

Dumbledore's blue eyes were not twinkling now; they were hard and contemptuous. Feeling about two inches tall, Sirius swallowed the grainy dregs of his doctored coffee and prepared himself for an uncomfortable interview.

The professor's voice was glacial. "Would you care to tell me precisely what has been going on here, Sirius? I asked Julia to come to this house in good faith. I as good as promised her that she would get the help she needed, but it appears she got something entirely different. Explain yourself!"

Sirius mustered some defiance. "How do you know what she got, damn you!"

Dumbledore's eyes narrowed. "I may not be as extensively experienced in matters of the flesh as you are, Sirius, but I am not a fool. Kindly do not treat me as if I were!"

"What happened was between me and her. No-one else."

"Except your conscience, perhaps?" Dumbledore leaned on the table and looked steadily into Sirius's eyes.

He felt something flickering in his mind. "Stop it!" he muttered.

The professor straightened and gave a long sigh. His hard expression relaxed a little. "I cannot deny that I have been at fault here also. Perhaps I owe you something of an apology. I have been too much concerned with larger issues and I have neglected the smaller ones to my discredit. It is something I shall be more careful of in future. You made a poor judgement when you were very young, Sirius, and it had catastrophic consequences. But you must move forward, there is nothing else you _can_ do. You cannot turn the clock back. Time moves only in one direction. Azkaban has brutalised you, as it does all those who suffer incarceration there, but you are not a beast, you are a man. It may be that Julia's discovery offers an opportunity for you to make amends. If you choose to take it."

"You've got us all dancing to your tune haven't you, old man?" said Sirius. "Playing your game. Moving us like pawns around your chessboard."

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "Is that how you see me? Perhaps you have a point. Possibly I do treat you all too much like chess pieces. But this is not a game, Sirius, although it is indeed a strategic process. You—the Order—are my soldiers. My army."

"Your pawns!"

"No, Sirius, not pawns. We all have our parts to play, but if you wish to use the chess analogy, then Harry is the king. If we lose him, we lose everything. The rest of us— _all_ of us— are expendable. Some of us will see this through and some will not. So, Sirius, if you are not one of the ones who is left on the board at the end of the game, who will remember you with love? Real love?"

Sirius was nonplussed. "Harry? Remus?"

"Harry loves you, yes, but he doesn't know you. He loves you for what you were to his father. And Remus loves you for the past you shared and the boy you were. But who is there who loves you only for what you are now?"

 _"Julia?_ " Sirius whispered. "Does Julia _love_ me?" It seemed unlikely.

"You will have to ask her yourself, Sirius," snapped Dumbledore. "I am not operating a lonely hearts club!"

This was the first time Sirius had ever seen Dumbledore exhibiting spontaneous irritation and he was pleased to see that although he might have lost everything else of himself, his talent for annoying people was undiminished.

"I committed a grave error," said the professor, "when I suggested Julia come here without properly telling her what to expect. I will ask her to return. If she agrees, she deserves to know what she is dealing with." He drew his robes around him. "Your future is in your own hands, Sirius. How you choose to venture into that unknown region is your decision. Do not let your fear paralyse you."

Fear! Sirius Black, afraid? What a ludicrous idea.

Dumbledore paused, looking at Sirius thoughtfully. "There is something else. This—" He gestured around him. "This privilege may be a matter of indifference to you. I doubt if you have ever considered its implications. Were you ever to have any sort of obligation or responsibility, you may wish to use some of it in a positive way." He moved towards the door. "I bid you good day."

"Before you go," said Sirius, "I've got a question. Who is the White Goddess?"

Dumbledore turned back. "Is your brain truly as pickled as all that? If you really can't remember for yourself, I suggest you ask your friend Remus. I have to be going. If I were you I would engage in some overdue housekeeping and keep my fingers crossed."

.

.


	12. Overdue Housekeeping

.

Cleaning had never held much appeal for Sirius, but practice made perfect, and after half an hour or so he was getting the hang of the thing. As he toiled at removing decades of sooty dust and cobwebs from the tapestry, the elusive Kreacher appeared.

"Master Sirius does not need to dirty himself with such a humble task, sir." He was uncharacteristically sycophantic. "Kreacher will do it! Kreacher will be honoured to clean the glorious tapestry, sir!"

"Fuck off, Kreacher," Sirius said, without heat. The elf quivered with indignation but stayed put.

Sirius sighed. "Not clear enough? Go. Away. Kreacher."

With a reluctant _pop,_ Kreacher disappeared.

.

As Sirius worked, he studied the tapestry, which, though familiar, he had never looked at before with anything other than resentment and contempt. _All those generations_ , he thought, _one on another, over all those years._ All sitting heavy on his shoulders. No wonder that sometimes he felt as if he carried a great weight about with him.

He walked his fingers along a branch and counted. Fourteen generations back from him, there she was: Yersinia Black, who had married Scorpius Malfais. And below them, a burned out mark, the name still barely legible beside it: Charon Malfais. It seemed Sirius's own mother had not been the first to expunge unwanted blood traitors from this woven record of arrogance and power.

Dark magic was strong and hard. It was the mortar that held his house together. But it was fragile. It needed sacrifice. It needed blood. And perhaps it was the knowledge of what was entombed in the foundations which had never sat easily with Sirius. He knew what he was. He knew who he was. Perhaps without the weight of his birthright he would feel lighter. In his dreams, sometimes he flew, weightless as an insect, into the sun.

.

Engrossed in his task, he did not notice the transition of day into night until, unexpectedly, the thin light of the waxing moon sliced through the tall windows and settled on the tapestry.

And there it was. The key. The cold light revealed a hidden pattern woven in threads of silver. Lines of text written in runes and framed by two snakes, each one holding the tail of the other in its mouth.

Sirius wished he was not making this discovery alone. He wished Julia was at his side making it with him. For the first time, he thought that perhaps he missed her.

.

In Julia's bedroom, he removed the shredded robe from under the pillow and burned it in the fireplace. Then he cleaned the bloodstained sheets and straightened the bed, making a second-rate but functional job of mending the torn mattress and clearing away the feathers. Julia had left a piece of stale cake on the table and a packet of biscuits in the pantry. He ate them, and leaned against Buckbeak's warm body until he grew drowsy and fell asleep.

.

.

* * *

.

When the morning rush hour had dispersed, Julia made her way back to the station where she had left off the previous day. An arched Victorian façade led into a quiet, airless ticket office. Opposite the single platform, a row of terraced houses balanced on the edge of a sheer wall of blackened bricks with stunted, self-seeded trees growing in the cracks. The sun did not quite get down to ground level and the air was heavy and close.

Without any sort of plan in mind, she wandered towards the end of the platform. About halfway along, a sense of disquiet settled on her and the back of her neck began to prickle, but as she walked further the sensation faded. With a combination of excitement and trepidation, she turned round and walked back until she felt it again. The _Magic Itch_.

The door was so incongruous she couldn't understand why she hadn't noticed it before; it stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. The other the doors along the platform were either large, solid, panelled ones painted in an institutional grey or flat modern doors which had been fitted into older openings. This one was noticeably smaller. It was bare timber darkened by age and hung on pitted blacksmith-made hinges. She ran her fingers gingerly up and down the edge. There was no obvious handle or latch and no keyhole, just a shallow circular recess in the central plank.

She hailed a man in railway uniform who was walking past. "Sorry to bother you," she said. "I wonder if you could tell me what's behind this door?"

"Door?" He looked where she was indicating. "Well, blimmin' heck!" He pulled off his peaked cap and scratched his head. "I ain't never seen that door afore. Twenny year I been working here and I never noticed it!" He put his cap back on and tapped thoughtfully on the dark wood. "No 'andle." He pushed at it. "Shut solid. I'll go and ask my mate, see if he knows." He walked away down the platform.

Julia studied the door. The recess in the middle had two little pieces carved out at each side so that the shape was roughly circular but with what looked for all the world like a little ear at each side. Close to, she could see, carved into the blackened lintel, two runes. Thoughtfully, she traced the shapes with her prickling fingertips.

The uniformed man did not return, and after waiting for quarter of an hour Julia went to find him. He was in the ticket office directing an elderly gentleman to the nearest underground station. When he was free again, Julia approached him. "Did you find out?" she asked.

He looked at her, raising his eyebrows. "Find out about what, Darlin'?"

"About the door? You were going to ask your mate about it."

"Sorry, Sweet'eart. I ain't got a clue what you're on about. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Er, no, I don't think so," said Julia. "Sorry to have bothered you."

She went back onto the platform. Where had the door gone? For a moment she had the frightening notion she had imagined it. Had she been hallucinating? But no—there it was. She could feel the static undercurrent of magic and rubbed at the irritated rash under her ear.

Back at home, she ate a peanut butter sandwich with a tin of chicken soup and an overripe banana, while her mind raced. As she absent-mindedly washed her plate, the doorbell rang. Usually when that happened, it was the meter-reader or a team of Jehovah's Witnesses. But this time it was Professor Dumbledore who was waiting on the landing outside.

"Albus!"

"Julia." He lifted his hat. "Please forgive my uninvited arrival."

"Do come in." She led him into her sitting room. "Excuse the mess. I'm afraid I wasn't expecting visitors." She cleared a space for him on her untidy sofa and rolled up the map which was still on the floor. "I'll put the kettle on."

Making a pot of tea could only delay the inevitable for so long, though she made it take as long as she could. Eventually she put the cups down on the coffee table and took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry, Albus. I've let you down."

Dumbledore picked up his cup and blew gently across the top before taking a sip. "Assam with a hint of Earl Grey? Delicious." He rested his cup on his knee. "I will not beat about the bush. I have seen Sirius."

"Oh." Julia's cheeks grew warm. "Is he . . . all right? I'm not sure he's coping very well."

"I have seen him looking better," said Albus.

"It's my fault. I think I . . . might have upset him."

The professor looked at her shrewdly. "Sirius would not say what had happened between you two."

Julia looked away in embarrassment.

"Please do not take all the blame for this," said Albus. "Sirius is responsible for his own actions, and I should have told you more before I sent you to Grimmauld Place. I thought—wrongly—that you would do better with no preconceptions, but I misjudged the situation. In my arrogance and inexperience, I failed to recognise the inevitability of what would happen when I placed a lonely man and a lonely woman together in such close proximity."

"I'm not lonely!" said Julia indignantly. Somehow her words did not ring true, even to herself and she concentrated on her drink so that she did not have to look at the professor. "But Sirius is, even if he won't admit it."

"I know you have not forgotten what is at stake," Albus said. "Time grows short. Too short for personal grievances to get in the way. You need Sirius for this. And although he doesn't know it, he needs you too. Azkaban brutalises and destroys. For a clever and sensitive young man such as Sirius to survive such an experience, the inner beast had to gain ascendancy. Do you understand what I mean when I say that Sirius may have had to become more beast than man to survive?"

Julia was puzzled. "To be honest, Albus, I don't."

He sighed. "I suspected as much. This is something Sirius must explain to you himself when he is ready. But now . . . Julia, will you consider going back to Grimmauld Place?"

.

.

* * *

.

Sirius had not bothered to repair the gouges in the plaster or even to clean up the broken glass and soot in the front bedroom. There were still bloodstains on the walls and floor, and the room stank. Julia had been right about that.

Half a bottle of wine was tucked into the torn upholstery of a couch. He pulled out the cork and sniffed it, not sure if it smelled appealing or disgusting. Reflectively, he picked up a piece of glass and felt the sharp edge with his thumb. By way of an experiment, he punched the wall, but he lacked conviction and did not even make a dint, though it hurt a great deal. He sucked his knuckles, and repaired them. Then he set about cleaning up the grisly mess. He tipped the contents of the bottle down the toilet in the nearest bathroom.

When he thought he had done enough, he went to his mother's bedroom. Although the hippogriff was indifferent to the unsanitary conditions, the room resembled nothing so much as a gigantic litter tray. Girding his loins, he cleaned in there too.

.

The gap on the library shelf where the map normally lived was an ugly reminder of unfinished business. Julia had been looking at a copy of _The Black Death in Europe and Great Britain,_ and Sirius sat at the desk and leafed through it. It was not a substantial book; it didn't need to be. The illustrations were graphic and he still felt a little delicate. He had seen things in Azkaban. Seen things—and done things too—that would make a sane man gibber. Mostly, the vague idea of a threat to the Muggle world seemed distant enough to ignore; he had not, after all, known many Muggles in his life. But the thought of Julia's body black with disease and corruption, abandoned and rotting on the street . . . He swallowed.

Late in the evening he tried to sleep but was agitated and impatient. He gave up, and spent some time methodically catching rats for Buckbeak. He no longer fancied them himself. He had been spoiled.

By the time the grey sky was turning pink with dawn he was lying half asleep in the bath. As the first warm rays of the sun shone through the east-facing window and drifted over him he thought about Julia and felt feverish with hope. Would she come back? He would get dressed just in case. He felt, almost, a sense of occasion, and found an enjoyable novelty in investigating the contents of his late father's wardrobe.

.

In his youth, he had taken pride in his appearance: in the careless good looks he had taken for granted. He had found pleasure in the texture of velvet and silk and leather: in rich colours and decorations. All he saw these days, it seemed, was ubiquitous black and grey and brown.

He found a delicate lawn dress shirt with mother of pearl buttons and fine pleating on the front. He would wear it loose like a tunic, he thought: and tie one of his mother's rich green silk scarves around his neck, bandana-style.

.


	13. The White Goddess

.

Sirius had refilled and boiled the kettle several times in anticipation of Julia's return but was starting to fear that pouring the last of his father's wine into the toilet had been a prematurely rash decision. He was contemplating the possibility that she had refused Professor Dumbledore's request when he heard the front door open.

"Don't even think about it," he heard her say and guessed she was addressing his mother's portrait.

He considered going up to greet her but found himself hesitant. What sort of reception was she expecting? Should he be formal? Greet her like a business acquaintance? An old friend? Or a lover?

Padfoot however, had no such inhibitions. Julia had come back to him! He was so pleased he could not get to the hall fast enough, racing noisily up the stone steps from the basement and skidding across the hall tiles in his eagerness. Crashing into her legs as she unhooked her rucksack had not been his intention, but she didn't seem to mind.

She dropped to her knees and hugged him, finding the itchy spot on his neck that no one had scratched for days. "Sweetie! At least you're glad to see me."

Of course he was. He checked that she tasted the same—which she did—and presented his belly to be rubbed.

She kissed his nose. "I've missed you so much, lovely boy! But I wonder if Sirius will be so pleased to see me?"

 _Yes. Yes he will_. Padfoot wagged his tail and tried to reassure her.

She got to her feet. "How is he? I suppose I'd better go and find him. Do you think a cake will do as a peace-offering?"

Padfoot thought a cake would do nicely. The bag on the hall table smelled promising. He scrambled to his feet and investigated more closely. Very promising indeed. He bounded up the stairs.

.

* * *

.

"Come back! Where are you going?" The dog disappeared round the corner of the landing and Julia climbed up after him. "Here, boy!" She attempted to sound stern and commanding but the errant Padfoot did not respond. Apprehensively she wandered from room to room on the first floor; almost glad to be back in the gloomy house, but nervous about the welcome she would get when she finally found Sirius.

As she started to climb the stairs to the second floor, he appeared on the landing above, and leaned over the banister, stretching his arms elegantly along the rail. He was clean and properly—if unconventionally—dressed, wearing a fancy pleated dress shirt and with a silky green scarf tied theatrically around his neck. _There is touch of the dandy about him,_ she thought, and felt a faint ache in her chest.

He showed no sign of surprise at seeing her.

"Sirius," she said, stating the obvious. "I'm back."

"So I see," he said with languid nonchalance. But there was a warmth in his eyes that belied the off-handedness of his words, and she felt inexplicably happy. He sloped downstairs.

"I think I owe you an apology," she said.

He looked surprised. "Do you? Why?"

"I had a visit from Albus yesterday."

"Ah," said Sirius, studying a shiny pearl button on his shirt. "Me too."

"He told me some things."

Sirius became very still and fixed his gaze somewhere over her shoulder.

"I didn't understand," said Julia. "I thought I knew, but I really didn't. What they put you through in Azkaban." Sirius seemed to be holding his breath and Julia wondered what he thought Dumbledore had told her. "They weren't kind to you." She reached out and tentatively touched an old scar on his cheek.

"I'm tougher than I look," he said.

"You look pretty tough to me," she said. "How did you survive Azkaban without going mad?"

"Perhaps I am mad."

"I wouldn't be surprised," agreed Julia. "But Albus said an odd thing. He said you had to be more beast than man to survive. What did he mean?"

"No idea. The old man likes to talk in riddles. Thinks it makes him seem more powerful and mysterious."

"Oh. It didn't sound like a riddle."

Sirius adjusted and readjusted his father's cufflinks. "Do you think these make too much of a statement?"

"I think you're trying to change the subject."

"You're imagining things. Come with me. I want you to meet someone." He took her hand and led her upstairs, towards the front of the second floor and stopped outside a door.

The last time Julia had approached that door she had heard a terrible screeching from the other side. Nervously she looked at Sirius and he winked at her in a way which did not reassure her at all. He opened the door and a strong farmyard smell emanated from inside. "I want to introduce you to Buckbeak."

Julia sniffed dubiously and stepped over the threshold. Her breath caught as a black beady eye fixed her in its expressionless gaze. Buckbeak pawed his foreleg loudly onto a bare wooden floor already indented with hoofprints, opened his sharp beak, and emitted a harsh squawk of warning.

"Oh, Sirius!" she clutched his arm. He did not pull away. "The hippogriff." She stood still, her hand tight on Sirius's sleeve. "I never thought—" She bit her lip and edged forward a little.

"Buckbeak", she said respectfully. "It is an honour to meet such a fine, handsome and heroic beast." Without breaking eye contact, she sank to her knees and waited, half-expecting the hippogriff to pounce on her as if she were a helpless rabbit. After several seconds, Buckbeak bowed his head. She heaved a sigh of relief and turned to Sirius with a smile. "Thank you."

Sirius raised his eyebrows. "You're welcome. That was either a brave or an idiotic thing to do. He's not very predictable. Has a tendency to cussedness."

"Does he?" said Julia. "I expect that's why you get along so well."

Sirius ignored the remark. "He must be in a good mood today."

"You'd have rescued me if anything went wrong," Julia said with confidence. "I know you would." She did not take her eyes from his and after a second, his gaze slid away from hers.

.

"So ," she said a little later, rubbing Buckbeak gently between his eyes and feeding him bits of digestive biscuit, "this is where Hagrid's murderous hippogriff went. Minister Fudge was incandescent with rage, you know. Completely beside himself. But lots of us were rather glad. I think most people thought the Ministry had overreacted, and Lucius's obnoxious brat had brought his injuries on himself."

.

* * *

.

Sirius watched her fingers feeding the hippogriff's cruel beak and wanted to feel them on his own skin again: on his face: in his hair.

"I haven't been completely idle while you were gone," he said, pulling himself together. "Come to the drawing room." He helped her up and she followed him down to the first floor again.

.

"You have been busy." She reached out and gingerly touched the tapestry with the tips of her fingers. "This looks different. What have you done?"

"I cleaned it."

"Oh my. Is there no end to your talents?"

Sirius gave her a baleful look. "You want to be careful you don't cut yourself on that."

"On what?" she asked.

"Your tongue," he said tartly.

She grinned at him and his breath caught. He cleared his throat."I found something. You need to look at it tonight. After dark. You'll need your notebook."

"Sounds intriguing," she said. "Have you been eating properly?"

"No," he said "I haven't." Anticipation made his mouth water. "I could manage a bit of that cake."

"However did you know I brought a cake?"

"Just a guess," said Sirius. "I expect the kettle will still be hot."

.

* * *

.

After they had eaten, she pulled a chair up in front of the stove and closed her eyes. Soon she was asleep. Sirius watched her for a while. Her face was still and peaceful. No doubt she did not fear her dreams the way he feared his own. He felt like a voyeur so when he had washed the dishes he went up to the dim and empty drawing room and lay down on a couch until the moonlight drifting through the tall windows settled cool on his face.

.

.

Julia was still asleep. He tickled her cheek, and laughed at her as she woke disoriented, brushing his hand away in annoyance.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty, it's dark and the moon's out. Come on." He took her hand—which was becoming a comfortably enjoyable habit—and led her upstairs.

.

.

Julia gasped in amazement. Sirius would have been disappointed in her if she had not. She let go of his hand and walked towards the tapestry, wide eyed.

"I'm glad you came back," he said. "Because I can't read it."

She squinted. "I need to get closer. I'll go and get the steps from the library."

"I'll get them for you," said Sirius. He flicked his wand towards the open door. " _Accio, Steps!"_ There was a banging noise from some distance away and Julia started to laugh.

"Buggeration, the library door must be shut." Sirius shook his head and went to get the worm-eaten ladder, returning with it floating before him. He set it down in front of the tapestry. "I fear my attempt to leave you breathless with awe at my powers has fallen flat."

"You'll have to try harder than that," she agreed, giving the steps a doubtful shake.

"They're not in very good condition," Sirius said. "I'm afraid I haven't really been keeping on top of maintenance."

"I would never have guessed," said Julia.

"I could levitate you instead."

Julia looked horrified. "I think not. I'll take my chances with this." She stepped on to the first tread and it creaked unhappily.

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," said Sirius. "I'm not sure it's altogether safe."

She frowned at him. "Don't fuss." Cautiously she climbed a few steps more. "If I fall off, I expect you to catch me." The dilapidated steps wobbled violently and she grabbed at the rail with a squeak.

"Julia! Come down now." Sirius caught her and steadied her a little more thoroughly than was strictly necessary.

Resentfully she stepped down to the floor again. "Your steps are complete rubbish."

He put a finger under her chin, tilting her face up. "You look exhausted." He stroked the pad of his thumb under her eyes.

"Have you looked at yourself lately?" she said. "You're no oil painting. Also I haven't been sleeping well."

"Me neither," he whispered.

He thought he heard her breath catch a little. The end of her tongue touched her upper lip.

She felt so slight in his arms, he was afraid to hold her too tight. And when he kissed her, he held himself in check and did not crush his mouth against hers to devour her as he thought he could.

It was so sweet, that kiss, but he wanted more; he wanted to pull her to him. Wanted to grind his hard cock against her hips; pull her beneath him on to the shabby couch; slide his hands under her clothes . . .

She tensed and drew away. "Sirius, no. I can't go through that again."

He remembered the hurt he had left in her eyes the last time, when he had been so angry: so cruel. Sour regret sickened him. He had cocked everything up hadn't he? As usual.

Then she stroked the tips of her fingers across his lips with tenderness, with . . . was it longing? She did still want him, he could tell, and he fixed all his hopes on that like a beacon in the dark. He wondered that he was able to speak "You're right. Let me mend the rubbish steps."

It took hardly more than a minute for him to make the steps secure, but he took several more minutes pretending the process needed far more concentration than it really did while he got his unwanted erection under control.

Julia climbed back on to the ladder. "Don't hover, Sirius. You're like an old woman."

 _An old woman?_ He wished she would let him show her how far from the truth that was.

.

* * *

.

When he had waited for what he thought was a respectable amount of time after she had gone to bed, he padded to her room and scratched at the door.

She opened it and smiled down at him. "Want some company?"

 _Yes! Yes!_ He wagged his tail vigorously.

"Come on then, dog."

She wriggled under the covers and patted the bed at her side. Joyfully he jumped up beside her. She put her arms around him and he thought his doggy heart might burst with happiness until he realised she was crying. He licked the salty water from her cheeks.

"How can I have been so bloody stupid! Can you hear it sweetie? Can you hear my heart breaking? It hurts, it really does!" She pressed his head to her breast which was rather nice, and he listened. He could not hear her heart breaking but it was beating rather fast and he could hear the breath in her lungs and the misery in her voice. Vaguely, he knew it was his fault, as everything that went wrong was his fault. And he wanted to say sorry.

"Thank you for coming, Sweetie," she said. "I thought you had abandoned me."

 _No. Never_. He licked her face and her hands and tried to tell her but she did not understand. Before long, she fell into such a deep slumber, he wondered if, just for a moment, he could be with her properly. Just for a moment. Only a moment. Or two. He stretched his fingers.

He knew, oh yes, he knew he should not. But still he slipped under the covers beside her. Her shirt had rucked up around her waist and he could feel her bare legs and hips and bottom. Helplessly, he touched her belly with his fingertips and she arched her back and pushed against him. And then he recognised that this had been a truly terrible idea.

"You're a dream," she murmured .

"Yes, a dream," he breathed against the back of her neck.

She wriggled against him and moaned his name. The sound and the sensation were impossibly, agonisingly, deliciously excruciating. He had not meant to do this. He had not. _Had he?_ He could slip into her effortlessly. She was ready. She would be so hot . . . so wet. She wanted him. He could . . .

.

No he couldn't. The voice in his head screamed _I hurt, Julia, I hurt!_ _Stop it hurting!_

He did not know he had spoken aloud until she whispered, "I know you do, my love," and he felt tears wet in her hair. The desperate urge subsided in shame. He rested his cheek against her back and listened to her heart beating for several minutes. How could he ever have been rough with her when she felt so small, so fragile; as if she might break under his touch.

When he left her, he went upstairs and lay against Buckbeak's warm flank. Julia had given him the perfect opportunity to tell her the truth but he hadn't taken it. Like the coward he was, he had avoided it: made a weak joke. And the right time to tell her had passed. Probably there would never be another.

Everything he had with her was based on a lie. Every day he did not tell her and every night that Padfoot spent by her side compounded it. But he could not keep away. The taste of deception was bitter in the back of his throat.

.


	14. Secrets of the Servants

.

Sirius leaned against the frame of the drawing room door and felt a faint movement as the wood shifted against the plaster. He had been noticing these small things lately. Doorknobs coming loose, timbers shrinking and splitting, plasterwork crumbling. As the bloodline became increasingly insecure, the bonds that held the house together loosened. He even doubted the integrity of the Fidelius Charm these days. Mostly, the world outside hardly existed for him, but once or twice he had been staring out of an upstairs window when he had seen a passerby look right up at him, blinking in alarm.

Julia was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the tapestry with her books and papers spread out in front of her, oblivious to his presence. Sirius found he had grown used to seeing her there, and for a little while, he watched from the doorway as he rolled a cigarette. He hadn't noticed it before but the carpet was in a terrible state. Julia, sitting there bright and vivid, made everything else look grubby and tired.

What did she want from him? Should he ask her? Should he tell her there was no point in expecting anything: that he had never failed to let down everyone who had ever depended on him?

There was nowhere in this house he did not see his past. He saw his mother and his father and Regulus and James. Everywhere, he saw James. Sometimes he was laughing and sometimes he was serious, but more often he was dead. When Julia was gone, would he see her as well? Would she be sitting there on the drawing room floor or at the kitchen table or climbing the great staircase towards him, even though she had left him too?

.

He lit his cigarette.

She turned and jumped at seeing him. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Just admiring the view." To his delight, she blushed. He crossed the floor and crouched beside her. "How are you getting on?"

She smiled at him and Sirius found himself smiling back. "I can make out some of the shapes now," she said, "but I would never have seen them on my own. It is a marvellous thing. Very clever."

"If you say so."

"I've translated the text. It was mostly pretty straightforward." She showed him what she had written. "These two runes at the top. You'll recognise those?"

" _The Great and Noble House of Black_ ," said Sirius. "About the only runes I do know."

She nodded. "Then here, it says, _'The blood will remember the son behind the son but the touch of unclean flesh will mean destruction.'_ But then there's this word. It's phonetic and spells out, ' _Viha._ ' I don't know what it means."

"I don't recognise it." _Viha_. Sirius did not recall ever hearing it before but it sent a chill down his spine.

"I went into the attics the other day," she told him.

"I know you did."

"You don't mind?"

"Mind? Feel free. Mi casa es tu casa," said Sirius.

"I think I found something," Julia said. "I'd like to show you."

He stood up, pinched his cigarette out and stuck it behind his ear. "Lead on."

.

.

.

"Oh yes," Sirius said, pulling the dust sheet off the stack of paintings and throwing it aside. "Haven't seen these for years. As I recall they used to hang downstairs but were too dreadful even for my mother. She preferred the more progressive method of preserving the heads of former loyal retainers."

"It really is no wonder," Julia said, "that you are so bonkers. House-elves," she continued. "It's hard for me to get my head round this. It makes me uncomfortable."

"Why? It's traditional."

"Yes, well, so is tripe and onions. That doesn't make it right."

"You're not on your own," Sirius admitted. "The Granger girl is quite militant about it. Muggle sensitivities."

"That's encouraging," said Julia. "Maybe there's hope for you people yet. When all you regressive pure-bloods have died out we might see the dawn of a new age of enlightenment."

"I'm sorry to say," said Sirius, "I never thought about it. The house-elves were just . . . _there_ , like—I don't know—some sort of family heirloom."

"That is repellent," said Julia.

He shrugged. "I suppose it is." He seemed to recall from when he was a small boy, another elf. Tiny, wizened and ancient. Kreacher's mother. It had never seemed important and she had disappeared from his consciousness by the time he was five. He supposed she had been incorporated into the repulsive row of shrunken heads that lined the stairs. Perhaps it was even the one he had carelessly discarded in the umbrella stand.

After that it had just been Kreacher. And did Kreacher have children? Sirius thought not, but in fact, he really did not know, and the idea unsettled him. Along with everyone else he had laughed at Hermione behind her back, but now he found himself ashamed.

He studied Julia's profile, noticing the graceful line of her neck and the way a stray lock of hair waved on her cheek. He admired her economy of movement; her intelligence and wit. He even liked her impatience and sharp tongue, and he wondered if, next week or next month, maybe—

"I think your house elf is the key to this," she said.

"Kreacher?"

She nodded and opened her notebook. "Remember Malfais says: _The secret will be held by the children's children of my servant?_ "

Sirius grunted dubiously.

"Because I'm a Muggle, I assumed he was talking about an ordinary servant. But he wasn't. The servant was a house elf. Sirius, the same family of elves have been in the service of your family since—well, forever, more or less, haven't they?"

"Er . . . I suppose so."

"I believe those are the servants who can tell you the way."

"No wonder the bugger didn't want me to clean the tapestry! Kreacher! KREACHER!"

There was a sharp _crack_ and the elf was before them, hissing with ire.

Sirius's new-found sympathy for the plight of house-elves did not, in any meaningful way, extend to Kreacher. He found the elf as repulsive as ever. "Where have you've been, Kreacher? Plotting some horrible revenge on me?"

Kreacher cackled. "The filthy traitor dishonours our noble family. It thinks I will speak to it!"

"Why don't I ask you another question then?" Sirius's hatred for the miserable elf started to boil. "Tell me, what secret have you been asked to keep for this family?"

Kreacher's bulbous, bloodshot eyes filled with acid fury. He shrieked and began to sob and fling his head against the fireplace. "Kreacher will guard the family's secret with his life! Kreacher will never reveal the secret to Muggle filth and Blood Traitors!" Flecks of blood and spittle began to fly about.

With considerable repugnance, Sirius grabbed him by one leathery ear. "I order you to tell me!"

The elf cackled with vicious glee, "Ah, it does not know the question! The Blood Traitor does not know!"

"Damn you, Kreacher!"

"Ha ha!" Kreacher's harsh voice lifted into a sing-song taunt. "It does not know, Mistress! It does not know!"

"But we do know the question," said Julia.

Sirius looked at her, puzzled. "Do we?"

"We do know," she said. "Malfais told us."

"The dirty Muggle shall not speak to Kreacher! Kreacher shall not answer!" The elf spat green froth at Julia's feet. She flinched, an expression of repulsion on her face.

Sirius was beside himself with rage and drew back his fist to punch the elf, but Julia grabbed his arm. "Sirius, no! Just ask him."

"Kreacher," he grated through clenched teeth, "what is the way to the place of bones?"

The elf gave a shrill howl. Sirius had to let go of Kreacher's ear in order to clap his hands over his own. Kreacher grabbed the heavy brass poker and began to wallop himself with considerable force. _"The beginning of the way liest beneath the old Court! Follow the Grim well and in the House of Mithras, the seventh gate will lead to the place. He whose blood carryeth the blood of the creator alone will have the power to undo what may yet be done!"_

With another loud _crack_ , he disappeared.

"That was unedifying," said Julia. "I can see why you don't like him. He's not too keen on you either is he?"

"He is disgusting," said Sirius, wiping his hands on his jeans to try and get rid of the lingering greasy feeling. "I think I've got a bit of him stuck on my hand. So what did that mean?"

"I think I know the first part," said Julia. She scavenged in her pocket for her pen. "I need to write it down. Find me some paper."

"Paper?" said Sirius. "Where do you think you are? I daresay there's a bit of parchment somewhere."

"Oh never mind," said Julia. "Help me remember. Something about the House of Mithras, the seventh gate and the Grim." _Mithras,_ she wrote on the back of her hand. _7th. Grim. "_ The Grim is a big black dog, isn't it? Padfoot? That doesn't make sense."

Sirius shook his head. "Doesn't mean anything to me."

"Come on," said Julia. "Let's have something to eat, and then I'm going to get an early night. I need to catch up on my sleep."

"Didn't you sleep last night then?" Sirius had always been his own worst enemy.

Julia blushed and dropped her pen.

Sirius was starting to find Julia's blushes increasingly arousing and turned away in embarrassment. "I'll, er, see you in the morning," he said.

Padfoot, however, thought it was an excellent idea and was waiting by her bedroom door when she returned from the bathroom smelling of soap and toothpaste.

In the stillness, listening happily to Julia's steady breathing, with her hand tucked into the fur of his neck, Sirius and Padfoot argued the practicalities of coming clean to her. But how could he tell her now?

If she asked, he would not lie. So if only she would ask him if he was, in fact, Padfoot, then he could tell her. He would tell her anything. If she only asked.

A thin beam of moonlight infiltrated a narrow gap in the curtains, falling in a line across Julia's face. The White Goddess, he thought complacently admiring the shape of her nose. They had already found the key. Something tickled at the back of his mind; an irritation that would not fade. Between the two of them, they pondered, until all of a sudden another piece of the puzzle dropped into place.

 _The White Goddess. The moon_. How could he have forgotten? His paws briefly landed on Julia's chest.

.

* * *

.

"Oof!" A hundredweight of dog briefly crushed her ribcage waking her rudely. Padfoot shot out into the corridor.

"Padfoot!" she shouted, alarmed. She tumbled out of bed and ran to the door, astonished to find Sirius outside.

"Sirius! What on earth are you doing? Don't you ever sleep?" She peered past him. "Where's Padfoot?"

"Never mind that, I've remembered something. Come on!" He grabbed her hand.

"Stop," she said. "Let me put some clothes on first."

He looked at her _déshabillé_ speculatively and his mouth curved into that devastating smile. "Not on my account."

"You're incorrigible," she said shaking her head, and went back into her room to pull on a pair of jeans.

He led her up to the third floor, and along a corridor she had not yet explored. By a door with the name _Sirius_ painted in fancy script on a plate above the door knob, he stopped. Julia sensed his reluctance to enter, but he visibly set his shoulders and opened the door.

"This was your bedroom?" Julia brushed at a sticky cobweb that clung to her face. "You haven't been in here for a long time. Why not?"

"The boy whose room this was—" said Sirius.

"Yes?"

"He's dead."

A dog-eared poster on the wall showed a faded bikini-clad lovely drooping uncomfortably across the tank of a motorbike. Julia blew dust off a photograph in a tarnished frame and looked at it. A teenage boy of quite startling good looks glowered at her from beneath the unfeasibly thick lashes of the very young. "Oh, Sirius, you were so beautiful." She touched the photograph gently, looked up at his ravaged face and whispered, "What have they done to you?"

He looked uncomfortable, and she pulled herself together. "Well, I assumed it was being in prison that had made you bad-tempered, but now I see it's congenital."

Sirius smirked. The tension broke. She followed him over to a corner of the room and he handed her an electric guitar.

"You play?" she asked.

"Not really. It used to annoy my mother in quite a satisfactory way though."

Julia put the guitar down on the bed. "It's only got three strings."

"Should it have more than that?" Sirius retrieved the object which had been behind the guitar, brushing a cloud of dust and cobwebs off it. It was a globe of sorts, but unlike anything Julia had seen before. "This is what I was looking for," he said. "It's a moon globe. Very old. It has been passed down to the first born Black sons for about six hundred years. It was made by some Italian wizard. I forget his name."

Julia looked at it closely. She had never made much of a study of astronomy but she had a vague idea of the geography of the moon. "This seems very accurate. How did he know all this, so long ago?"

Sirius grunted disinterestedly. "Bear with me. If I can just remember. . ." He was feeling around the circumference of the globe. "Ah." There was a faint click and the top and bottom halves sprang apart. "This is what we want." He pushed the top part fully open revealing a compartment inside. "I haven't seen this since I was about eleven. No one else can open it. Only the son of Black. Which is me, obviously. Blood Magic."

On a cushion of frayed green silk inside the globe nested what looked like a metal ring, black with tarnish, about six inches across. He took it and held it out to Julia. The ring was formed of two snakes, each with the tail of the other held in its mouth. With some reluctance she took it from him. "It's a torc!" she said in astonishment. "This is ancient. Saxon, I think. It must be priceless!"

Sirius shrugged. "It's Goblin silver," he said. "I bow to your superior knowledge on the rest of it. The house is full of stuff like this, in case you hadn't noticed."

Julia considered the privilege that had surrounded Sirius for his whole life; so much so that he attached little importance to such things. Everywhere in this house she saw evidence of ancient and immense wealth and power. She felt the oppressive weight of the generations of expectation that sat upon his shoulders and shivered. "Come on," she said. "There's nothing we can do now. You might be happy to stay up all night, but I need some sleep. We'll make a plan in the morning."

.

.

.

At breakfast, they sat at the kitchen table, with the torc in front of them. Between bites of toast and marmalade, Julia began to speak. "While I was gone—"

"You went to see Arthur."

"Oh. Yes I did. I'm sorry. I should have minded my own business." She chewed her lip and studied the pattern on her plate.

"No," said Sirius, "you shouldn't. It's a long time since someone minded my business. It seems a little strange that anyone would want to." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Thank you."

She stared at him in disbelief. "What have you done with Sirius?" she said. "I demand you return him immediately."

Sirius grinned at her and she inadvertently sucked in a toast crumb and choked.

"Yes, well," she said when she had stopped coughing and drunk some more tea, "in addition to minding your business, I spent some time comparing your map"—she nodded to where it lay rolled up at the other end of the table—"with a modern map of the city. And I did a bit of field work too. I went to see the collapsing car park where I think the abbey was, but I couldn't get in for a proper look. They have twenty-four hour security so I don't see any point in trying to get through from that end. I did a lot of walking around. It was interesting, seeing how little remains from before the fire. He did his job very thoroughly, you know, Malfais. He was no fool."

She told Sirius about the door she had found on the platform at the station and how, although it wasn't invisible, no one seemed to quite see it. "A misdirection charm I think?"

Sirius wiggled his fingers at her. " _These aren't the 'droids you're looking for._ "

Julia dropped her toast. It landed upside down on the floor. Automatically, she picked it up. "You've seen 'Star Wars'?"

"Julia," he said patiently, "I was eighteen when it came out. Of course I've seen _Star Wars._ Do you think I lived under a rock?"

Since she had assumed something of the sort, she changed the subject. "The door had two runes carved into it. And a recess the same shape as the torc. I think it's a key of some sort."

Sirius leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "So if that really is a key and it will open the door, the next question is, what's behind it?"

"That's what we have to find out," said Julia getting to her feet and reaching for the map. "There's something on here." She unrolled it and beckoned Sirius over to look. With a finger she traced the faint line which meandered somewhat but linked Black Court and St Wergrim's Abbey. "I'm not entirely sure what this is, but I'm guessing—hoping—it's an underground passage between the two buildings. I think the door I found leads to the entrance that used to be under Black Court."

Sirius peered at the map. "If that's a passage, then are all these other lines passages too? There are dozens of them. It seems a bit unlikely."

Julia sighed. "I know it does, but I've no other ideas. That door is definitely charmed, and with those runes on, it must be connected with the tapestry."

Sirius sat on the edge of the table with his feet up on a chair and took half a cigarette from behind his ear. "This is all very well, Julia, but how are we going to do this?"

She looked at him blankly. Her heart sank. "Bloody hell. I've been so involved in working out the puzzles I haven't even considered how to actually get the thing. Whatever the thing is." She swallowed. "I'll have to take the torc and try it, won't I? And if it opens the door I'll get to see what's on the other side."

"You can't do this on your own," said Sirius firmly. "Merlin knows what's down there, or what obstacles there will be. I'll have to come with you."

"Well you can't, can you?" said Julia. "It would be suicidal. The Dementors are out of control and they want you. The moment you leave the house, they'll know where you are."

Sirius looked speculative. "Why don't you take Padfoot? You know he's not an— _ordinary_ dog. He'll understand what you need him to do."

"Padfoot? I wonder—but will you be all right here on your own?"

He appeared taken aback by her question. "Why on earth shouldn't I be?"

"Well, you know . . . Padfoot's company for you, I suppose. And this is such a depressing house . . ." She tailed off.

"Why are you worried about that?"

"Well for goodness' sake, Sirius! I don't like to think of you rattling around this horrid place on your own. For crying out loud, I care about you! God knows I wish I didn't, and you don't deserve it, but I do. So there."

"Oh." Sirius looked bewildered.

Julia glared at him. "You are such an idiot!" she snapped. "Get off the table and find your dog!"

.


	15. The Seventh Gate

.

In his mind's eye Sirius pictured Julia walking the streets of the city: riding on buses and tube trains: sitting on park benches eating sandwiches. And in his mind's eye she was always alone, like him. He wondered at it. Did she have family other than the mysterious dead brother? There must have been lovers too. Men? Women even? Certainly, she had been no reluctant virgin. She had known what she wanted. What if she was married? Had children? His blood ran hot then cold for a second. _No, old Dumbledore would have had something to say about that._ When he felt more sure of himself, he might ask what she had been waiting for.

.

The prospect of getting out of the house put him in such a feverish state of anticipation that he tried to keep out of Julia's way, fearing he would not be able to hide his excitement. In an attempt to keep himself occupied he set to mending the leaky drawing room window.

"Whatever has got into you?" asked Julia, standing in the doorway with her arms folded.

"Merely undertaking a little maintenance," he replied testily. "Unless you want to help or"—he leered—"take me upstairs and ravish me, I suggest you go away and leave me alone."

Julia stuck out her tongue—which he found very nearly as stimulating as her blushes—and went.

.

After a rather dull evening meal consisting mainly of bread and cheese, they sat at the kitchen table. Sirius's compulsive chain-smoking and lack of appetite made Julia suspicious.

"What's the matter? You normally eat as if you don't expect to see food again for a month but you haven't even finished your supper. Have you changed your mind about Padfoot?"

"Of course I haven't. It's the only solution I can see." He pushed the torc across the table to her. "You'll be needing this."

"Unless we come up with another plan, I will," she admitted. "I'm a little . . . nervous, I must admit."

"A little?"

"More than a little."

"I—Padfoot will take care of you, Julia. I promise."

She gave a weak smile and Sirius wished he could give more reassurance, but these days he tended to expect the worst.

"We'll have to go to my flat first, so that I can get any things we might need." She ticked items off on her fingers. "A bigger torch. Spare batteries. More matches. Warm socks. Money—"

He closed his eyes and imagined her home. It would not be like his house. It would be clean, dry, and welcoming; not damp and mildewed with vermin living in the gaps between the floorboards, and beetles eating the rafters.

Julia was still speaking. "Padfoot will draw too much attention on public transport, so we'd better walk. It will take about an hour and a half from here, so I want to leave early before there are many people about."

"Just remember to call Padfoot 'Snuffles' when you're outside," Sirius reminded her.

"I will," she said, getting to her feet."I'm off to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

Sirius caught her hand. "Be careful, Julia."

"Of course I will." She gazed into his eyes as if searching for something. He could not tell whether she had found what she wanted but he doubted it.

.

* * *

.

Padfoot tried to make himself comfortable on Julia's bed, but no matter how many times he twisted round, he couldn't quite get the bedcovers as he wanted them. After an hour Julia sat up. "Sweetie," she said. "I love you dearly, you know that, don't you?"

He did, and wagged his tail in agreement.

"But I'm feeling a bit sick and you're making it worse thrashing about like this. Either settle down or do it somewhere else. Why don't you go and disturb Sirius?"

Padfoot tried to keep still but it was beyond his power and after another half-hour she shooed him out of her room and decisively closed the door on him.

.

Before sunrise, Sirius half-filled a bath with water and made sure enough doors were open on the upper floors that Buckbeak could roam the house freely and hunt. Then he trotted downstairs and waited for Julia in the entrance hall.

She put her rucksack down and ruffled his ears. "Where's Sirius? I know it's early but I thought he would see us off. He didn't even come and get his tea." With a frown she looked up the stairs. "I wonder if he's upset because I'm taking you away? I know he said he didn't mind, but still—wait here for me."

When she came back several minutes later, she was close to tears. "I can't find him anywhere, sweetie. I think he's avoiding me. Why would he do that?"

.

* * *

.

The sun was just breaking through the hazy, pink-tinged clouds as they left the house; the cool, damp air rich with smells and promise. A light mist hung above the ground.

"Don't pull, Snuffles," Julia said. The makeshift collar and lead had been cobbled together from the straps of a set of mouldy flying robes she had ferreted out from the scullery and were attached only by a flimsy thread. "It's going to be a glorious day." She spread her arms wide. "I'm so glad to be away from that awful house. It saps your energy. No wonder Sirius is going off his rocker stuck in there."

Padfoot shared that opinion.

"I just wish—oh, I wish he could get out. Some fresh air and sunshine would do him the world of good. I'm sure he needs some vitamin D."

.

A few minutes walk brought them to the end of a quiet side street where Julia let him through a wrought iron gate into a small park. She unhooked the improvised lead and slapped his side. "Go on, have a run while you can."

Free at last, he raced across the wet grass, stretching his legs and back, feeling the air in his coat, the elastic strength of his muscles and the blood pumping through his veins. He investigated the flower beds and shrubbery, discovering all manner of excitingly flavoured scraps hidden in paper bags and cartons.

A flock of pigeons enticed him. He remembered pigeons being a lot of fun. An old woman wearing a man's overcoat was feeding them seeds from a paper bag, and when he chased them, sending them clattering into the still air, she shouted, "Gerrorfofit yer mangy mutt!" and swatted at him with a rolled up newspaper.

He ran back to Julia for reassurance but she laughed at him. A little hurt, he retired to the shrubbery again and had a thorough, satisfying scratch. Julia sat down on a bench and lifted her face up into the morning sun, her eyes closed in pleasure. Padfoot rested his head on her lap and sniffed affectionately at her crotch for a moment then lay down under the bench until she sighed and reattached his lead. "We'll have to go," she said. "It's a long walk."

It was that time of the morning before night shifts end and early shifts begin. The roads were quiet; the few people around mostly concerned with minding their own business as unobtrusively as they could. Bravely, Padfoot ignored several cats who tried to goad him into pursuit and stayed close by Julia's hurrying feet. He followed her up a flight of echoing steel stairs and along a bare concrete walkway. "Here we are," she said, stopping outside a featureless door identical to all the other doors they had passed. Anxiously she looked around. "I hope no one's watching. I'm not supposed to have pets." He sat and waited until she found her key and unlocked the door. "Please be quiet, sweetie." She urged him inside. "No barking. I don't want anyone to know you're here."

Julia's flat was, as Padfoot had supposed it would be, dry and moderately clean—though not as tidy as he had expected. In any case he considered tidiness to be overrated. He investigated the corners and under the furniture.

"Found anything?" she asked, "Ghouls, boggarts, doxys?" She put a saucepan of fresh water on the floor then leaned over a strange box-like contraption on a table. Padfoot looked up at her for clarification.

"It's a computer," she explained. "I don't suppose you've seen one of these before. Let's see if I can make it do what I want." She pressed a button on the front and it started to whirr and hum. Tiny lights flickered on and off. "It takes a while to boot up."

But though he looked all the way around it, Padfoot could not see a single boot anywhere.

"This is a floppy disk," she said, showing him a flat, square object which was not at all floppy and which she inserted into her computer before sitting down. Wearing an expression of fierce concentration she tapped away, occasionally swearing under her breath. Eventually, she pulled the misleadingly named floppy disk out again. "You never know," she told him. "My evening class teacher said you should back everything up. Now I'd better sort out my rucksack."

Padfoot studied the pile she had emptied out of her bag onto the carpet. "So that's where my camera went." She blew fluff off a small silver device. "There's a brand new film in here too." She put it back in her bag and picked a few other items out. "Most of this stuff is rubbish. Where does it all come from?" She gathered the crumpled bits of paper, old tissues and blunt pencils together.

Losing interest, Padfoot wandered away and nudged the balcony door open with his nose. He ventured out and found a sunny corner where he dozed until he was woken by a grumpy terrier barking up at him from the park below. Enthusiastically, he responded in kind. Julia dashed out and shooed him indoors, scolding. "I told you to be quiet! Behave yourself." Humiliated, he crawled under her coffee table and whined until she relented and gave him a piece of cheese.

.

* * *

.

The large flashlight Julia kept by the gas meter had a much more powerful beam than her little pocket torch but—she switched it on and off a few times—the batteries wouldn't last long. Her new hurricane lamp was still in its box: the plastic bottle of paraffin still sealed. "Maybe I will get to use this after all." She wrapped the bottle in an extra plastic bag and tied the shiny new lamp to the front of her rucksack.

How much could she realistically carry? She sat on the floor with her chin on her knees as she tried to imagine what they might come across and how far they would have to travel. Above ground, she estimated the distance from the railway station to the likely site of St Wergrim's Abbey to be about three miles. But they would be underground and the passage—if indeed it was a passage at all—might twist and turn all over the place. It certainly meandered on the map.

There was an empty lemonade bottle in the bin. She could salvage that and fill it with water, and she would take her last packet of biscuits. No doubt it would be cold as well as dark so a warm sweater would be sensible. And some spare socks in case her feet got wet. And—she shut her eyes and tried to remember where she had put them—the sturdy leather gloves she hardly ever wore because they made her look like a welder.

Screwdrivers and Allen keys would be no use, she thought, surveying her very basic collection of cheap tools, but a short crowbar left behind by a previous tenant lived at the back of the cupboard under the sink. She had kept it in case it might one day come in useful.

The bar was cold, heavy and black, with smooth faceted sides and a sharp hooked end. Magnetic too, she noticed, picking off several nails and a couple of rusty washers. A long pocket at the side of her rucksack was just about the right size for it.

She stood up and stretched her stiff back. "I suppose we should have some lunch." Her food cupboards were mostly empty. "When she got there, the cupboard was bare," she quoted, feeling around at the back of the shelf where she couldn't see. "I definitely haven't got any bones for you. How about chick peas?" She looked down at him and grimaced. "No, I quite agree."

An out of date chocolate Easter egg she had bought herself at a reduced price after the bank holiday was hidden behind the chick peas. "We'll take this with us for energy." She found another tin in the corner. "Do you like pilchards, sweetie?"

.

* * *

.

"There's nothing to do now but wait till after the rush hour," said Julia, rinsing her plate after a lunch of a hard boiled egg apiece which they had eaten with the pilchards and half a packet of stale cream crackers. "I'm going to take advantage of a proper shower while I can. Would you like to watch the telly?" She dried her hands, tickled Padfoot under his chin and switched the television on.

Padfoot sat immobile, hypnotised by the flickering screen until, some hours later, she switched the television off and he looked up at her in surprise, his eyes glazed and vacant. "Come along, square-eyes," she said briskly. "It's time to go."

.

* * *

.

A few late commuters were drifting towards the station exit as the last train rattled back the way it had come. Now and then an impenetrable voice echoed from the tannoy above. The evening air smelled of diesel, coffee and fried doughnuts.

"Where is it?" Her head itched as she walked back and forth along the deserted platform. "I know it's here somewhere." She lost sight of Padfoot and panicked. "Snuffles! she cried in alarm, looking about wildly, but he was only three feet away sniffing along the bottom of the missing door. "Oh, there you are!" She rubbed her eyes. "Clever boy, you found it. These misdirection charms are the devil."

Padfoot sat alert with his back to her while she took the torc out of her rucksack and unwrapped it. "I hope this isn't just wishful thinking," she said. "I'll feel such an idiot if it doesn't work." She held the tarnished silver serpent in one hand and thoughtfully slid her fingertips around the smooth furrow carved into the door. "It looks the right size at least. Let's try it." The torc fitted neatly into the groove. "Yes!" Julia gave Padfoot a satisfied thumbs-up and pushed at the door expectantly.

Nothing happened. The door remained resolutely shut. What had she expected it to do? Did it need a wizard to open it? She felt nauseous with disappointment.

"What now?" she asked Padfoot who was worrying at his hind leg and did not respond. She gave the the door an ineffective kick and looked at the torc again.

The head of one snake jutted out at the side like a little handle. She wiggled at it. "Please," she said. "Please open for me."

Something behind it made a stiff sliding noise and a thin gap appeared along the edge of the door. "Thank you," she said politely. "Much appreciated." Cautiously, she pushed it open. Padfoot scrambled to his feet.

All she could see was a brick wall and a flight of steep steps leading down into the darkness. A faint smell of drains lingered in the stale air. "Well, Snuffles," she said. "There's only one way to go now." She wiped her perspiring hands on her thighs, took her pocket torch out of her bag, and zipped some spare batteries and a box of matches into her inside pocket. After a moment's hesitation and a silent prayer, she stepped in. Padfoot pushed past her and started down the steps.

"That's my brave boy," she said. As she followed him on to the stairs, the door slammed, obliterating the fading light. She squeaked in shock. "I should have wedged the door open. How stupid of me!" Feeling her way up the steps with her feet, she climbed back to the door and studied it by the light of her small torch, running her fingers along the frame. "I can't see any way of opening it from inside. Let's hope we can get out at the other end." She filled and lit the hurricane lamp, then switched her torch off to conserve the batteries. Carrying the lamp before her, she began to descend.

To begin with, the walls were brick and the steps were even and regular. Julia counted them until they changed direction sharply. "Was that eighty?" she asked. "Or eighty-one?" She paused for a drink of water and awkwardly tried to pour some into Padfoot's mouth. "Something tells me we've barely begun."

Now the walls were stone and the steps shallower and deeply worn. As they continued the descent, the air became colder, and the surfaces grew at first damp and then progressively wetter. Water oozed from above and trickled down the walls. Dirty brown deposits crusted on the stone blocks in strange, organic shapes which, after a while, seemed to Julia to be shifting in the corners of her vision.

They plodded on downwards, step after step after step: the only sounds their breathing, the slap of their feet on the slimy treads, and the uneven dripping of water all around. More than once she slipped, barely keeping the lamp upright. Soon her jeans and hands and rucksack were wet and sticky. Even Padfoot's big paws slithered on the steps, but at least he had four feet on which to balance. The fur on his belly and tail grew matted and heavy.

Julia lost all sense of direction and grew sluggish and disoriented, until overcome with weariness she sank down on to her backside and succumbed to a bout of self-indulgent weeping.

"I can't do it!" she sobbed. "What was I thinking? I've failed and now I'm going to die hundreds of feet under the ground all covered in stinky slime."

Padfoot whined and licked her face. "Oh, sweetie." She hugged him tight. "I've brought you down into this hell-hole and now I don't know how to get you out."

He prodded at her side with his nose.

"What?" She put her hand inside her pocket. "Oh, my Easter egg." She gave a tearful laugh. " _The condemned woman ate a hearty meal of a half-price Easter egg past its sell-by date._ Here." She snapped off a piece and gave it to Padfoot who took it delicately from her filthy fingers.

"You can't have any more, it's very bad for dogs." She kept the chocolate wrapped in the foil to keep it as clean as she could and ate a good half of it. Within a couple of minutes the crushing sense of defeat eased and she took a deep breath. "Come on then, Padfoot: onward!"

Another twenty steps brought them to a low lintel which the dog trotted through easily but Julia had to crouch down and shuffle underneath. They emerged into a wide, draughty space. Padfoot abruptly sat down and gave a sharp bark, stopping Julia in her tracks.

She took the flashlight out of her rucksack and switched it on. A cylindrical shaft, perhaps ten feet across, stretched up as far as she could see. The air moved in a gentle cyclone as the warmer air rose and the cold fell. A couple of feet below, she could see the shine of water. A barely perceptible movement rippled the surface as it slid silently into a culvert. She had very nearly walked right into it: rucksack, crowbar, and all.

"Thank you, sweetie," she said. "Surely that"—she waved the torch—"isn't where we're supposed to go?"

A ledge barely eighteen inches wide followed the curve of the wall from where they were to another narrow opening on the opposite side of the shaft. She breathed in through her nose and then blew out slowly to calm herself. There were shallow handholds in the wall but they would be useless if she lost her footing.

A faint vibration shook the placid surface of the water and swiftly built to a rumble. Padfoot howled and froze with his tail between his legs and Julia held her breath, her hands tight on the straps of her rucksack. The rumbling became a deafening roar and her scream of terror was lost in the noise.

Then the sound died away as rapidly as it had begun and she understood what they had heard. "It's all right." Her voice did not sound as calm and reassuring as she had intended. "It's only the Underground."

Padfoot shook himself then trotted easily along the ledge and disappeared into the gap on the other side. Julia put the heavy flashlight away and followed him, edging her way gingerly with the lamp in one hand, and the other groping for the handholds in the wall.

The new passage sloped gently upwards and after a hundred yards or so joined a larger tunnel with water flowing deep and fast along a central channel. A pavement just wide enough to walk on ran alongside.

.

They travelled for a long time, following the stream against the current. Every so often rivulets of water trickled or ran or poured from holes in the walls but the passage hardly changed. Julia had the feeling that she was covering the same section of passage again and again like a character in an animated cartoon. All sense of time or distance had faded, but they had already eaten most of the biscuits and she had refilled the lamp once so they must have been travelling for well over an hour. Was it possible that they had missed a turning somewhere along the way? Padfoot trudged steadily on ahead, tail drooping. Then they rounded a gentle curve and Julia halted, blinking in disbelief. The path was blocked by a metal grille through which the water flowed, but there was no way past.

"But we can't stop here!" she wailed in despair. "Not when we've come this far!" Padfoot had disappeared. "Padfoot! Snuffles!" she cried. "Where are you? Come back, boy!"

He reappeared from a dark gap beside the grille and barked at her.

"Sweetie, have you found a way through?"

Julia would never have spotted the opening on her own. Most likely she would have thought they'd come the wrong way and turned back. But they hadn't come the wrong way. Cut roughly into the rock beside the opening were two runes.

.

The passage was hardly more than a fissure and was so narrow Julia had to follow Padfoot through sideways, holding the lamp out in one hand and dragging her rucksack along with the other. _Millions of tons_ , she thought. _Millions of tons of rock pressing down on me_. She stopped moving, paralysed with fear. "I can't!" she gasped. "I can't do it, sweetie. I can't even breathe." Padfoot's warm tongue wrapped around her hand. "Oh lovely boy, I'm so sorry." He caught her sleeve in his teeth and pulled insistently until Julia started to move again.

The passage widened after a mercifully short distance and they emerged into an open space. Julia fell to her knees, taking great gulps of sweet air. Her face was wet; she hadn't even realised she was crying.

"Wherever we end up now," she said trembling, "I won't go back in there. Not for anything."

The dim light of the lamp picked out the bases of stone pillars and Julia could hear splashing close by. She slipped the rucksack off her shoulders and found the powerful flashlight again.

Wide pillars carved out of the rock walls flared out into arches high overhead. At the base was a clear pool surrounded by a low wall. Standing on a plinth was a statue. Much of the detail had worn away, but it appeared to depict a bull lying down with a human figure on its back. Underneath the statue a steady stream of water flowed into the pool from the mouth of a stone serpent.

With a gruff bark of joy, Padfoot leaped into the pool, making a great splash and stirring up a layer of cloudy silt from the bottom.

"For goodness' sake!" Julia couldn't help laughing though she was still a little shaky. "I think this is a Roman temple. It's probably the most important archaeological find of the century. Show a little respect." But she herself was so encrusted with filth she only hesitated for a few seconds before putting the flashlight down on the wall and plunging her own hands into the water.

She dried them on the lining of her jacket. "This place is amazing. It must be the source of one of the lost rivers." She tried to recall the ones she had heard of. "The Walbrook? The Blackditch? No, the Grimwell, I think." She slapped her forehead. "Of course! One word, not two."

Padfood scrambled out of the pool and shook himself vigorously, spraying drops of water all over her.

.

Between the pillars were several apertures like the one they had come in through. Julia realised with horror that she and Padfoot would have to go out through one of them. "If they're all as narrow as that"—she pointed to the doorway which still had her rucksack on the ground in front of it—"I don't think I can do it. I'm sorry, sweetie, but I just can't." She got up and walked to the nearest opening, venturing a little way in with Padfoot close at her heels, brandishing her heavy torch like a weapon. The passage was not nearly as confined as the one they had come in through, but when the path forked she retraced her steps back to the entrance. She swept the flashlight around the outside of the entrance, noticing for the first time the letters carved above it. _TERTIVS_.

"Oh." She stared. "I wonder if—"

The word _SECVNDVS_ was carved into a stone set above the next opening. She walked to another, already sure of what she would see. _QUARTVS._

"How obvious!" She tutted at her own slowness and aimed the torch beam at an entrance on the other side of the chamber. "It's that one." The light rested on the text. _SEPTIMVS_.

She retrieved her rucksack and slung it over her shoulder. "That's it. The Seventh Gate."

.


	16. The Place of Bones

.

Julia had to stoop in the low passageway as she shuffled uncomfortably behind Padfoot who trotted easily ahead. "I don't suppose Sirius's ancestors were all midgets," she said, tetchily. "This must have been made for elves."

Every so often she had to sit on the ground in order to straighten the crick in her neck. As soon as the passage ended behind a broad pillar and they emerged into an open space, she stood up straight, rocking her head from side to side. Her scalp tingled, and an itchy spot developed under her chin. Padfoot was subdued and stayed close by her. He showed no inclination to explore.

The sweeping beam of the flashlight revealed a long chamber with a vaulted ceiling and dressed stone walls. Engraved brasses, green with verdigris, were laid among the flagstones of the floor and several stone sarcophagi were positioned at intervals along one side. On the other side, a deep, wide alcove was set back inside a rounded arch. Debris crunched underfoot as Julia walked over to look. Padfoot tucked himself against her, his tail between his legs, whining softly.

.

The torch beam illuminated the staring eye sockets of a multitude of grinning skulls. Julia stumbled back in shock. Deep shelves heaped with assemblages of pale bones lined the alcove. She shuddered and buried her free hand in Padfoot's fur.

"It's an ossuary," she told him. "A charnel house. This has to be the Place of Bones." She let got of Padfoot and swung the flashlight about. "What are we looking for, sweetie? A tomb? It must be here somewhere." The torch beam bounced over the stone sarcophagi on the opposite side of the chamber but at the other end of the space the light picked out a different sort of structure. She held the torch steady and tried to see. "I wonder if it's down there."

.

The end of the vault had been built as a semi-circular apse. Centrally positioned inside it was a distinctive marble sarcophagus; the effigy of a man with a proud, cruel face recumbent on top. The image was not carved from the same piece of limestone as the flat lid. _Alabaster,_ she thought, touching the milky stone. Walking around the casket, she studied it more closely, running her fingers around the edge of the lid and exploring the base of the statue.

"This has to be it, Padfoot. Wouldn't you agree?"

Padfoot looked desperately unhappy. His eyes were dull, his ears and tail drooped, and his nose was dry.

Balancing the flashlight beside the carved figure, Julia dropped the rucksack on the ground and slipped the crowbar out of the side pocket. She weighed it in her hands for a moment.

.

After some consideration she wiggled the end of the bar under a corner of the carving and managed to lever it up by a tiny amount. It resisted less than she had anticipated and slid on the smooth marble. Gradually she nudged the figure towards the back of the slab, exposing some text which had been hidden underneath. When she had shifted the effigy so that it lay along the back of the cover, jutting slightly over the edge, she could see what it said. The words were different, but the sentiment was tiresomely familiar.

" _Be sure, adventurous one"—_ she read aloud—" _that the treasure within is truly what you seek: for the touch of the impure means death. Only the blood of the son will remember_. Underneath the words were the familiar symbols that spelled _Viha._

 _._

* * *

.

Padfoot whined impatiently and paced back and forth in front of the stone coffin. He wanted Julia to hurry up so that they could find a way out of this horrible place. He did not see what she did next, but she squeaked in alarm as the statue suddenly moved and the heavy lid tipped back flipping the front upwards. He yelped and Julia screamed as the edge of the slab missed her face by inches. The cover crashed to the ground and broke through the middle. Julia was paralysed, staring in horror at the broken slab. Padfoot barked at her sharply.

"Sweetie?" she whispered and bent over with her hands on her knees breathing deeply and whimpering a gentle litany of distress. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God."

Padfoot howled in sympathy and felt the unmistakable severing of magical bonds. His fear intensified. He could almost hear the snapping of enchantments and the weakening of the structure around them. They had very little time left. He barked at her encouragingly until she pulled herself together.

"You're right, lovely boy." Her voice quivered. "Now isn't the time to be faint-hearted." She stood, trembling, and shone her torch into the open sarcophagus.

"Hello there, handsome" she muttered. "Wulfric Black I presume. Nice gold necklace you've got there." She stepped back and fumbled in her rucksack, pulling out a pair of heavy gloves. "We're nearly there, sweetie." She gave Padfoot a confident pat. "Not long now."

Reaching into the casket from her uncomfortable position perched on the side, she caught hold of something inside and tugged. "Bugger," she muttered. "It's stronger than it looks." She grimaced and gritted her teeth, swearing loudly with effort and frustration as she tried to move it. After a minute she stopped and leaned on the side of the case, bowing her head dejectedly. "We're so close, but this is harder than I expected. These thick gloves aren't helping. Do you think I should try without them?"

Padfoot thought that was a very bad idea, and growled in disapproval. Then—though he did not know how—he sensed something coming loose overhead and barked. He jumped at her and she fell sideways.

"Padfoot! What on earth—?" She looked up into a hail of grit and scrambled back just in time to avoid a hefty chunk of falling masonry which crashed to the ground a few feet away.

"Bloody hell, that was close!" A shower of smaller stones fell further away. "We've got to get that thing out before something falls on it!"

This time she heaved herself up on to the side of the stone case and knelt on the edge. "Oh my knees!" She reached in again, but started to overbalance.

In a panic, somehow Sirius managed to do what he had never done before and transformed one of his forelegs in order to grip the waistband of her jeans and drag her back from disaster. More heavy masonry fell close by. There was a hole in the roof now and far above he could see the yellow glow of street lights.

She tried to reach into the case again but she was shaking uncontrollably. "It's no good!" She started to weep. "I'm not big enough or strong enough."

Padfoot snarled at her, warning her back, and shrank down on his haunches.

"Padfoot! Sweetie, what are you doing?"

He had not wanted it to be like this. He had wanted to tell her in his own time.

.

.

Julia screamed.

"Not now, Julia." Sirius was much bigger than her and had no difficulty in reaching the skeleton that lay inside the opened sarcophagus. He could see an object that had once been clasped in the bony hands but was now encased in the collapsed ribcage. He tried to move the bones but everything was solid and would not budge. He understood why she'd had so much difficulty.

With all his weight behind it, he punched into the skeleton, feeling his newly healed knuckles break and just managing not to cry with pain. He grasped the object and wrenched it out.

"Something to wrap it in. Quickly, we've no time!" The hole in the roof was getting noticeably bigger and rocks were falling with increasing speed. Speechless, she pulled a sweater from her rucksack and he wrapped the object inside it, twisting the sleeves round and tucking them tightly in place.

He held out his hand expectantly. "Your bag, hurry!" She thrust her rucksack at him and he stuffed the bundle inside. "Move!" Just in time he dragged her out of the way of a huge block which crashed on to the sarcophagus and shattered the corner.

.

Then he heard what he feared most in the world. He had hoped there would be more time. Even a minute longer, just to tell her—

"I haven't got a wand," he said helplessly, knowing it was an idiotic thing to say, even as he spoke. His capacity to make a Patronus had left him on Hallowe'en, fifteen years before. He shoved the rucksack into her arms and urgently grasped her shoulders. "Julia, listen to me. _Viha._ Tell Dumbledore. Don't forget!" He tightened his grip on her arms. "Leave me here, just go!"

He was incapable of saying anything else, and as the faint light from overhead was blotted out in freezing blackness, he fell to his knees, holding his arms tight against his ears; his hands clasped behind his head trying to block out the infernal screaming.

He half-heard her beside him. "Sirius, for crying out loud, what's happening?"

Like a wet rag, he was lifted up, up into the misty shadows, and felt that thing on his face again, like slimy ice, wet and scaly. There was something in his mouth; a cold tongue forcing its way deep into his throat, suffocating him, sucking the life from him, searching for his hidden, sad soul. . .

.

 _There was so much he wanted to—if only—_

 _._

 _If only. . ._

 _._

* * *

.

Julia did not comprehend what was happening. There was a smell like rotten eggs and an almost-scream, just above hearing. The dim light which filtered through the collapsing roof was abruptly blotted out, and the flashlight dimmed. A biting, menacing cold swept through the chamber.

Something at the edge of her vision swooped down on Sirius and lifted him like rag doll several feet into the air, obscuring his face behind a curtain of darkness. His back arched, bent like a paper clip.

She understood then; _Dementors._ The cold, shifting things that hid inside the darkness they brought with them.

"No!" she screamed, without stopping to think, and grabbed the crowbar, hardly registering the fact that her gloves sizzled. She hefted it over her shoulder and swung wildly at the amorphous shadows she could see only in the corner of her eye. "You shan't have him!" She swung again and as the iron bar swept through the air, a hot line like a white flame imprinted on her vision. She felt a contraction: a withdrawal: a cry of rage.

Sirius dropped like a dead weight to the ground with a dull thud. She swung the bar again. Inside the thick gloves her hands were getting uncomfortably warm. Then the bar glowed red hot and the leather started to burn. With a last yell of fury she threw the radiant bar into the shapeless shadows and briefly saw a burst of yellow flames leap from it. The smouldering leather of her gloves hissed and turned black. She dragged them off. Then a chill swept through her and the cold started to drag the breath from her lungs.

She pulled Sirius's head into her lap, covering him with her arms. This was not like wizard magic, it was something different. Glacial dread crept over her. Horror, hopelessness, defeat. It was crawling into her mind, under her skin. There was nothing she could do. She had failed. She was beaten. Finished . . .

.

.

She heard barking and the terror receded a little. _Padfoot?_ No, Sirius was there in her lap, cold and still.

The security guard's Alsatian bounded into view. Wielding a blinding flashlight, the guard scrambled over the rubble behind it.

"What's going on 'ere?" He shone the torch in Julia's eyes, dazzling her. "This is private property. You're trespassing. What are you up to? And what's up with him?" The guard pointed the torch at Sirius's white face. "Is he dead? He looks dead. I'm calling the police." He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. "Hold 'em, gel," he instructed the dog and grabbed Julia's rucksack.

"No!" gasped Julia. "Please don't open the bag!"

"Thieving, no doubt." The guard flipped back the unfastened top. "Gawd it's cold down here." He started to shiver. "And it stinks. What's—oh!" He brushed his hand across his face. "Uh, cobwebs!" Shoving the bag back at Julia, he slapped his neck. "Bloody flies. Agh!" he yelled. "What's that noise?"

His dog dropped into a snarling crouch and its hackles rose.

"Sheba!" cried the guard. "Down girl, down! Oh, Jesus Christ!"

This last expletive was because where, a second ago, had been a handsome German Shepherd, was crouching a woman in long, heavy robes. She leaped nimbly to her feet and snatched the baton from the guard's unresisting grasp.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_ A shaft of silver light burst from the end of the baton and curved away, bird-like, into the darkness, twirling and dancing. The shadows grew thinner and faded and Julia heard something at the back of her mouth like the chittering of bats. The silver light flickered out.

"Phew!" said the woman glancing at Julia. "Are you all right?"

Speechless, Julia managed to nod.

"Good. I don't suppose you've got any chocolate on you?"

Without taking her disbelieving gaze from the woman, Julia pulled her hand from under Sirius's head and felt in her pocket for the remains of the Easter egg.

"Do you mind?" The woman took it from her, broke off a piece for herself and handed the rest back to Julia." Eat some."

Julia looked at it with incomprehension.

"It helps, I promise."

Numbly, Julia put some in her dry mouth.

"We need to get out of here," said the woman. "They'll be back and I can only handle so many Dementors." She lifted the guard's baton again. " _Nuncia Patronum."_ The silver light leapt out once more but this time it did not linger in the chamber but looped away over the rubble and up towards the dim yellow lights above ground.

The woman knelt in front of the security guard who was sitting against the sarcophagus, eyes screwed shut, knees under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. "Sorry about this, Derek."

He opened his eyes and looked at her then put his hands over his face. "Why'm I 'aving—whatsit. Deja vu. We've done this before 'aven't we?"

"I'm afraid so. It'll be safer for you if you don't resist."

He leaned his head back in resignation and closed his eyes again

" _Obliviate. Somniate."_

Derek's head dropped forward to his chest and he started to snore.

There was a _crack_ and Mundungus Fletcher hurried towards them, negotiating his way between blocks of fallen stonework. The sound of sirens drifted down through the collapsed roof and flashing blue lights cut into the darkness overhead. "The Muggle coppers'll be 'ere any minute," he said. "And the fire service no doubt. We've gotta get out. What do you think, Emmy. Gas explosion?"

The woman shrugged.

""Don't you people get tired of gas explosions all the time?" said Julia over Sirius's motionless form.

"Well what do you suggest?" snapped the woman.

"Wartime ordnance," said Julia. "That will scare them enough to keep out until the army get here. Should give you some time to—you know—do whatever it is you do."

The woman looked at Julia and nodded. "Nice, Jules. That'll work."

.

Sirius lay on Julia's lap like a corpse. He was grey. So very cold and still, she thought he was close to death. But a slow, feeble pulse beat in his neck.

"Jules," the woman said, I've got to get Sirius back to Grimmauld Place. I'm afraid I can't manage you as well."

"It's all right," said Julia dully. "I'll make my own way. Get a cab or something."

.

Gently, the woman lifted Sirius upright with her wand and wrapped her arms round him. With a _crack_ and a momentary disturbance in the air, they were gone.

"Come with me, missy," said Mundungus helping her up. "Let's get you out of 'ere. I'll deal with the Muggle emergency services. Give us a hand with young Derek."

He woke the guard who was disoriented but cheerful. Derek giggled as he got to his feet. "You been smoking wacky baccy down 'ere?"

"It's time to go home, Derek," Julia said, retrieving her rucksack. The crowbar was on the ground, dark red with rust as if it had been there for years. She left it lying where it was. Let the archaeologists make of it what they would. She was no longer sure she cared.

'Ave I finished me shift then?" asked Derek, rubbing his eyes.

"It looks like it," she said and pulled one of Derek's arms over her shoulder. Mundungus took the other arm. Another section of masonry collapsed behind them. Mundungus looked into the open sarcophagus. "Just a sec," he said pausing.

Julia half-saw a yellow glint disappear beneath his robes.

"A man's gotta live," he said unrepentantly. "'S'no use to anyone else."

.


	17. Viha

.

"Gor blimey, darlin'." The taxi driver wound his window down just enough to speak to her through the narrow gap. "You look like something from _Night o' the Livin' Dead._ I'll 'ave to charge extra for the cleanin'. You sure you can afford it?"

Julia dug into her pocket and pulled out a dusty ten pound note. "Please," she begged. "It's all I've got."

"Do I look like I'm runnin' a charity?"

"You've got a kind face," offered Julia hopefully. "You wouldn't leave a vulnerable woman all alone out here would you?"

"Good grief." He unlocked the doors. "Get in."

"Thanks," she said. "I'm very grateful."

"Too soft for me own good," said the cabbie.

Julia wondered what he would have to say if he knew what was in her bag, and nursed it anxiously on her lap.

.

.

The entrance hall of Sirius's house was as rank and gloomy as ever. "Hello!" she called.

"Dining Room!" answered a distant voice.

Julia hurried down the passage clutching the bag to her chest. Sirius lay flat on the long table, unmoving. The witch from the crypt was watching him, arms folded, wand tapping steadily against her shoulder.

"Jules," she said with a crooked smile. "You made it back."

"Emmeline. It's been a long time."

"It has. I often wondered how you were doing."

"Really?" said Julia. "The odd Christmas card would have been nice. How is he?" She touched the back of Sirius's hand. "He's absolutely freezing! He's not—?"

Emmeline shook her head. "He's not dead, but he doesn't look too good. Professor Dumbledore will be here any moment. He's bringing Poppy Pomfrey with him." She stroked Sirius's thin cheek. "Look at him. Such a waste. It might have been better if he'd died before they sent him to Azkaban."

"Don't say that!" Julia gripped Sirius's icy fingers.

"You still care for him? He's not the same boy we knew."

"No," Julia whispered. "He's not."

There was a noise from the hallway. "Thank Merlin." Emmeline stuck her head out into the passage and called, "We're in the dining room!"

.

Albus swept through the door, accompanied by a determined looking woman wearing a stiff white hat and carrying a large bag.

"Poppy," said Emmeline with obvious relief. "I'm so glad to see you!"

The nurse put her bag down on the table by Sirius's feet, felt the pulse in his neck and lifted his eyelids, looking grim. She walked along the length of his body holding her wand a few inches above him, pausing every so often to tut pessimistically.

"Well done, Emmeline," said Albus. "How is Derek?"

"He'll be all right," said Emmeline. "But he's been Obliviated four times now. I don't want to do that to him again."

Albus turned to Julia. "Did you—?"

For a moment Julia looked at him blankly not knowing what he meant; then she realised and nodded, tightening her grip on the rucksack. "But Sirius—" she whispered.

"Oh yes, Sirius." Albus looked grave.

"Did you know?" Julia asked accusingly. "Did you know what would happen to him? With the Dementors?"

"Julia," said Albus, "I am neither as Machiavellian nor as omniscient as some would have you believe. I did not know. I could see no reason why he would leave his Animagus form."

"He did it for me," Julia murmured. "I couldn't get the thing out of the coffin on my own."

"Hey Jules," Emmeline said with a wink. "You might be the making of him yet."

.

Madam Pomfrey was leaning low over Sirius's face, her ear close to his mouth and her hand on his chest. She straightened up and rummaged in her bag. Albus joined her. Julia tucked herself out of the way against the tall dresser and watched helplessly as they conferred in low voices over Sirius's form.

"I draw the line, Albus," Madam Pomfrey's clear voice said, "at treating him on a table. I assume there is a bed somewhere in this dilapidated warren of a house."

My room is probably the least derelict," Julia volunteered. "From what I've seen. Second floor. Left on the landing. Third door on the right."

"Then that is where we shall take him," said Madam Pomfrey briskly. "Stand aside, please. Albus, will you assist?"

The professor and Madam Pomfrey lifted Sirius before them and guided him out of the dining room and towards the main staircase. Julia followed them into the hall and stood clasping her bag, looking up the stairs after them and feeling useless.

.

Emmeline tapped her shoulder. "Jules."

Julia turned to face her. Emmeline's short, cropped hair showed silver at the temples and she had lines on her face that had not been there fifteen years before. But then so did Julia.

"Work to do. G'luck, Jules. We had some laughs, didn't we? Before it all went to shit." Emmeline lifted her wand to her forehead in salute. "See you on the other side, maybe." She slipped quietly out of the front door.

.

"Up here, my dear." Albus beckoned from the first floor landing. Julia cradled the rucksack in her arms as she climbed towards him, careful where she put her feet.

"Poppy has been good enough to spare a little time away from her duties at school," he told Julia when she reached him. "She has put Sirius in your bed as you suggested." Julia started towards the next flight of stairs but the professor stopped her. "There is nothing you can do for him at the moment. He is in the best possible hands. Poppy is more than capable and we should let her work without distractions. I would like to see the object you retrieved from the crypt, if I may. Shall I take your bag?"

Julia handed it over with considerable relief and followed him into the drawing room.

He sat down on a couch with the rucksack on his knees and waved Julia into the seat beside him. After an exploratory wave of his wand, he lifted the bundle out and carefully removed the sweater Sirius had wrapped it in. Julia's head and neck prickled; she scratched at a bump behind her ear. For the first time, she saw the artefact properly. A globular metal case—lead, she guessed—with a sort of window in the front revealing an inner glass jar: cloudy, rippled and uneven with age, the top sealed with wax. Inside it, suspended in brown fluid, something dark and contorted.

"What the—what _is_ that?"

Albus lifted it up and illuminated it with his wand.

"Look closely, Julia. Can you see what it is?"

Within the shifting liquid darkness, she could see—

"It's a rat! That's vile!" Saliva collected under her tongue she tasted sourness in her throat. She licked her lips and swallowed. "Albus, Sirius said something in the crypt. He said to tell you, ' _Viha'._ It's written in the tapestry and it was on the sarcophagus as well. Neither of us knew what it meant."

"Ah." Albus wrapped the relic again and leaned back with his hands clasped on his chest. "How interesting. It must be the spell the son of Black should use to destroy the relic."

"Sirius didn't recognise it."

"It's rather exotic. From an older civilization. A somewhat different form of magic, but a powerful one nevertheless. You will have to explain to Sirius that he needs to deal with this himself. I think he will know that in any case. And it should be done without delay. As soon as he is strong enough."

"Can't you tell him? Please?"

Albus shook his head. "Julia, there are many other calls on my time—especially now. I cannot wait here until he wakes."

"I don't know how I can talk to him again!" She buried her face in her hands. "I didn't know! I had no idea Sirius was Padfoot. I feel so stupid. I know about Animagi so how did I not realise? I even joked about never seeing them together!"

"How could you have known if he didn't want you to?" Albus handed the rucksack back to her. "Keep this safe, Julia. You would be ill advised to allow Kreacher to see it." He stood up. I have to be on my way. Perhaps you would like to go and see Sirius now."

.

.

Madam Pomfrey wore a crisp apron and an aura of calm, no-nonsense efficiency, but her mouth was tight with disapproval. "This place is hardly better than a huge shed. It is really not a suitable environment for an invalid."

"An invalid? Don't let him hear you say that." Julia stood by the bed and looked at Sirius, grey and motionless. She touched his cheek. "He's so cold." She leaned down and spoke into his ear. "You'd better not die on me now, Sirius. I want to kill you myself."

"An understandable sentiment," said Madam Pomfrey. "Not, however, of much practical use."

"What can I do?" asked Julia.

Madam Pomfrey looked her up and down. "If I were you," she said, "I would have a bath."

.

Julia had to admit Madam Pomfrey was right. She found some clean clothes and took herself off to the bathroom, put her bag in a corner where she could see it, and ran a lukewarm bath. As she washed her hair under the tap, she tried not to think about what she might be rinsing out with the dust and grit.

With a threadbare towel wrapped around her wet hair, she went back to her room glad to see a bright fire burning in the grate. Sirius was in her bed with the sheet tucked tightly around him. He looked vulnerable and somehow smaller.

Madam Pomfrey was packing her things away. "Ah, Julia," she said briskly, "It is up to you now, I'm afraid."

"What? But I'm not a nurse! You can't leave me alone!"

"There's nothing more I can do for him, and I am needed back at the school. All you have to do is keep him warm. The cold of the Dementors goes much deeper than a normal chill. It reaches into the . . . what you might call the soul."

"The _Wyrd_ you mean," said Julia.

Madam Pomfrey raised her eyebrows. "Exactly. Sirius has come too close too many times. I don't know how he survived this. I have left some medicine. It will help—if you can get him to take it. It doesn't taste very nice and I suspect Mr Black will not be the most compliant of patients. I don't envy you this. Good luck!" She patted Julia's shoulder sympathetically as she left.

 _Compliant?_ Julia laughed gloomily. She put her bag in the wardrobe and tucked the orange jumper around it for extra safety then piled some of her own clothes on top. Kneeling in front of the fire she dried her hair, then she pulled the broken chair up beside the bed and perched on the edge.

"Please get better soon, Sirius," she said firmly. "Because I have a number of matters to discuss with you." She watched the steady beating of the pulse in his throat: leaned over so close she was almost, but not quite, touching him: laid her hand on his cheek, on his neck. He was so chilled it frightened her. Even his breath felt cold against her palm. She put another blanket on the bed. The fire was still burning, but she did not know how long it would last now that Madam Pomfrey had gone. She went down to the deserted basement, filled the coal scuttle and heaved it up the stairs.

.

* * *

.

It was cold: cold in his blood, cold in his bones. He was lifted into the air; helpless, flailing and directionless. A rancid tongue was in his mouth, sliding down his throat.

.

Again: inside and outside, he was freezing. Like a rag, he was picked up and tossed high into the shadows. Something foul was in his mouth. He tried to vomit.

.

Again: he was numb with cold. Up he flew. Up and up, unresisting and impotent. The scaly thing was on his face sucking the life from him and he could not breathe.

.

Again: his blood had frozen: his bones were ice. Putrid slime poured from his nose and ran into his throat filling his lungs. Adrift in the dark sky he spun and spun and spun . .

.

Again: he was so cold. So cold. So cold. . . and he did not have the strength even to wish for death.

.

But . . .

He was not so cold . . .

In fact he was . . .

Warm . . .

. . . Was he?

.

* * *

.

Julia lifted one of Sirius's eyelids and shone her torch into his eye. She had no idea what she was looking for. His eyeball was rolled right back and all she could see was the bloodshot white. Was that normal?

The third time she did it he looked right back at her and whispered quietly but very clearly, "Can't a man get a bit of rest round here?"

Julia laughed.

He opened his eyes a slit. "You aren't a Dementor," he muttered. "Am I dead?"

"No, Sirius," Julia said softly. "Not yet. Probably you will be soon." He closed his eyes again. His fingers moved and she touched his hand. "Gentle Julia," he whispered, "so sweet-natured."

She lit a candle and poured some of Madam Pomfrey's medicine into a glass. "Sirius, I've got some medicine for you." She lifted his head. "Drink this, it will help."

He took a mouthful, gagged, and spat it out in disgust. "Fuck that," he said. "It tastes worse than Dementors."

"Oh Sirius!" Julia exclaimed, snatching a cloth and dabbing at the pungent, sticky stuff. "What a bloody mess! You're worse than a baby." It was suddenly too much for her to bear. She began to sob. "I can't stand to see you like this! And how can I tell you what a twat you are if you don't get better. I'm begging you, please take the medicine."

The corner of his mouth quirked."Give me the medicine, Julia," he whispered. "Please don't be nice to me. It's too frightening."

.

.

In the pallid early morning light he was shifting and restless. Julia tried to straighten the covers around him. "Are you uncomfortable?"

"Of course I'm uncomfortable. Stop faffing around with the damn sheets and help me up." His voice was strained. "I need to get out of bed."

"Don't be silly. What you need to do is stay where you are."

"Julia," he said through clenched teeth. "I need to get up. I need a pee and if you don't help me there's going to be a terrible mess."

"Oh!" she said. "Why didn't you say? I'll get a bottle or something."

Sirius sucked in a scandalised breath. "Bloody hell. You'll do no such thing. Get me up now!"

"Oh, honestly," said Julia. "You're impossible."

 _"Now!"_ he said, and pushed back the covers.

"For goodness' sake, if you must. Come on then," she said, offering her arm. He pulled himself up to sit on the side of the bed, swayed and nearly fell.

"Whoa." She grabbed his shoulders. "Are you all right?" He retched. Beads of sweat sprung out on his forehead and he looked deathly pale. "Are you going to be sick?"

"No." he said swallowing. "Absolutely not." His hand gripped her arm so tightly it was painful. "But I might piss on your feet."

"No you won't," she said. "You've far too much sense of your own importance to do something so undignified."

At last he stood and leaned heavily on her. "Don't fall," she said. "I'm not strong enough to get you up."

"I'm not going to bloody fall!" he snapped. "I'm not an invalid. Help me down the corridor." Once he got moving, he steadied and walked almost by himself to the bathroom. "Merlin," he gasped, putting his hands flat against the wall for support. "I hurt in places I didn't know I had places. Now go away and give me some privacy." He pushed her out of the bathroom and locked the door.

.

Julia hovered on the landing imagining him collapsed on the floor until, after what seemed ages, she heard the door being unlocked.

"Good grief, have you been waiting for me?" he said in disgust.

"I was worried about you."

"For crying out loud," he muttered shaking off her hand as she tried to take his arm.

"This is one of the things I like about you," she said. "Your sunny good temper and happy-go-lucky attitude. But since you're feeling strong enough to be awkward and argumentative, Albus said we shouldn't delay in dealing with the relic. And . . . thank you."

"For what?"

You got it when I failed, even though you knew it would bring the Dementors to you. Probably, you saved the world."

"Don't be ridiculous." He screwed his face up in distaste.

"I'm not," she said simply. "If you know anything about me by now, you know I don't flatter and I don't lie."

.

"Come on then," he said, taking her hand. "Let's do this thing. It's time."

"Don't you want to put some clothes on first?" she asked.

He looked down at himself as if surprised. "I will if you want," he said. "Am I driving you wild with desire?"

"No," she said. "You're too thin. Not my type at all. And you're a deceitful, duplicitous, unscrupulous, underhand, dishonest bastard."

"You've been practising," he said admiringly, and added, "but you forgot perfidious."

"So I did. That too."

.

.

He sat cross legged in front of the tapestry. An invisible connection pulsed silently between it and the object on the floor in front of him. Like an umbilical cord. He picked up the relic and unwrapped it, finding an ancient glass bottle enclosed in a lead casing. Holding it up against the window to look, it was so dark it was almost black, yet red lights shifted within it. There; the blood memory, deep inside, was speaking to him. He held it before him in both hands, and spoke. _"Viha."_

Then he put it down on the floor between his knees and picked up his wand. Holding the tip of his wand against his inner forearm he said: " _Sectum Vena,"_ and winced as a deep cut opened up along his vein. Dark blood began to well out and drip on the carpet.

He heard a sharp gasp behind him _._

"Keep back, Julia."

He heard her move away towards the door.

He held his arm above the ancient jar and allowed the dark blood to dribble on to it for several seconds, then he picked it up again and held it against his belly.

Layer by layer, spell by spell, like the rings of an onion, the enchantments began to open until at last Wulfric's legacy lay black and fluid in Sirius's cupped hands. Then it crept between his ringers and under his nails and soaked into his skin and wriggled in his veins like worms, like maggots, like snakes: and it became a part of him.

 _The blood will remember the son behind the son._

For some moments he felt dreadfully ill. Beads of sweat sprang out all over his skin and he fought to catch his breath. He leaned forward on his hands and knees and vomited bitter yellow bile into the carpet. "Don't!" he gasped as he felt more than saw Julia's movement towards him. His head felt as if it might explode and everything was misted in a green fog. Then the green fog turned to a golden one and the sensation passed. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes in exhaustion and lay back flat on the floor.

.

When he opened them again Julia was kneeling beside him holding a wadded cloth firmly against his bleeding arm. "Is it over?" she asked.

He took the cloth from her and looked at his arm. The cut was already closing. "It's over." He pulled himself into a sitting position and faced her.

She stood up. "Get some rest," she said, her voice expressionless. "Come down to the kitchen when you feel better. Dressed, if you don't mind," and left the room leaving behind a silence that said, as clear as anything: _What now?_

 _._

 _._

 _._

Sirius looked up at the tapestry and all those names stacked up, one on the other with him at the bottom. This woman, whose life was about as far away from his own as it could possibly be, seemed to understand him better than anyone else except James ever had. He got to his feet, cleaned the vomit from the carpet, more or less, and followed her out.

Exhausted, he collapsed back into the bed which was still warm and smelt of Julia and fell into the deepest slumber he had experienced in years.

.

Later in the day, feeling much better and quite ravenous, he got up and pulled on a pair of jeans. He sat on the edge of Julia's bed for a while, gathering his nerve for what would, no doubt, be an uncomfortable conversation. He could, he supposed, make himself scarce. Padfoot was good at hiding. But Padfoot would never hide from Julia. The damn dog was besotted and Sirius himself was in danger of liking her too much for his own good. Complications of a romantic nature were the last thing he needed now, regardless of what Remus thought. But in any case he was starving and if he wanted food, he would have to brave Julia's ire.

As he walked down to the basement, he could hear her moving in the kitchen and paused for several seconds with his hand on the doorknob.

Julia looked at him, but did not speak as he entered. Likely she had no more idea of what to say to him, than he had to her. The range was lit and she gestured towards the old armchair in front of it. Without taking his eyes off her, he sat down. She handed him a mug of tea and a bowl.

"What's this?" Sirius sniffed at the thick golden liquid.

"It's soup."

"Soup?"

"Are you having trouble with your ears?"

"No, but—"

"It's restorative and easy to digest. Ideal when you're convalescing."

"It strikes me as not adequate sustenance for a man as hungry as I am. I hope you've made plenty."

"I have. But I'm glad you're feeling better because we need to have a talk." She gave him an ominous smile and folded her arms.

"Uh!" Sirius sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. "I think I'm having a bit of a relapse." He started to get to his feet. "I need a rest. I'll take this up with me."

"Bloody well _sit down!"_ she ordered. "You aren't going to wriggle out of this!"

Abruptly, he sat down and glared at her from the corner of his eye. "You seem to have turned into my mother."

Julia's mouth tightened. "I'm beginning to think your mother was much put-upon! You're an unregistered Animagus, aren't you? That's how you survived Azkaban. _Isn't it?_ And how you escaped! Albus almost told me. I can't believe I didn't see it! Didn't you trust me enough to tell me?" Her cheeks began to flush and her eyes were bright and angry. "How could you, Sirius? How could you let this bloody charade go on? All the things I said to Padfoot . . . was it just a joke? Did you have a good laugh about me with your friend Remus?"

"No! Don't think that, Julia. It just . . . got out of hand. And you'll be glad to know Remus was pretty disgusted with me." Words failed him and he raked his fingers through his hair. "I don't know what to say." He took a mouthful of the soup which was thick, tasty and altogether excellent. "I, er . . ." He felt the need to fill the difficult silence before Julia filled it with things he didn't want to hear. "At least we found the relic and destroyed it safely. Job done," he added weakly.

"Yes," she said, her voice flat. "Job done. So I don't suppose I need to stay here any longer?"

The conversation had taken a turn he hadn't expected so soon. "I don't suppose there is." The soup was proving harder to swallow than Sirius expected.

"I'm losing my job at the Ministry. " She paused expectantly waiting for Sirius to say something, but he did not respond. "I suppose I'll have to go to the Jobcentre and look for something else."

"Do you need—" Sirius had no idea how to ask if she was short of funds. "If I can help in any way . . ."

"Are you offering me _money?"_ her voice was low and quiet and it trembled.

Sirius knew he had committed a horrible faux pas and grew defensive. "Well what _do_ you want?"

She was pale but composed and looked directly at him. "I think you know what I want."

Sirius couldn't meet her gaze. She wanted him to ask her to stay. She had as good as told Padfoot she had feelings for him, but Sirius didn't know how to deal with feelings of that sort. Tenderness. Intimacy. He had spent fifteen years crushing them.

It was true he wanted her, liked her, admired her. She was brave and tough and honest and sharp, and if only things were different . . . There was an unfamiliar obstruction in his throat and he swallowed several times in an attempt to dislodge it.

Julia took his silence for rejection. Which it was. Wasn't it?

"I see," she said. "This conversation isn't going any further is it? We've done what we had to do." She sounded beaten. "I'll go and get my things together. Do your own washing up."

.

.

So she was going. And that was what he wanted. She would leave and he need never see her again. He could go back to the life he had before she arrived. He had never wanted her there in the first place, interfering with his life, insinuating herself under his skin. In her no-nonsense way she had turned his life upside-down. Changed the way he saw himself, his lineage, even the way he saw the future.

It seemed the temperature in the kitchen had dropped. It felt bigger and shabbier without her there. Even the dancing yellow flames in the stove died to a dull orange.

 _Prongs?_ Sirius looked hopefully into the hearth but all he saw was glowing embers.

.

.

Padfoot did not require the advice of ghosts. _Are you going to just let her leave?_ He was baffled. Why would Sirius do that? She knew where the itchy spot was. She made cakes. She smelled wonderful. Padfoot didn't want Julia to go. _What was Sirius thinking?_

He made a unilateral decision, and went to find her.

.


	18. Unfinished Business

.

Julia fed Buckbeak a stale crust and brushed a few loose feathers off his wings. "Someone took me flying once, you know," she told him. "It was a long time ago but I remember it as if it were last week. How far can you fly? Couldn't you take Sirius out of reach of the Dementors?" She sighed and rubbed him between his eyes. "But I suppose it doesn't work like that. I'd better go and pack." She stood up and bowed. "It's been lovely knowing you."

By way of reply Buckbeak coughed a large, grey pellet out at her feet.

.

Now that she had humiliated herself without achieving anything, all Julia wanted to do was get away from Grimmauld Place before she did anything even more mortifying. Dejectedly she started to stuff her belongings all anyhow into her rucksack. She might as well, she thought, her face burning, have got down on her knees and begged for Sirius's attention. She gave up on trying to force an uncooperative pair of shoes into her bag and concentrated on bullying the straps into submission by the expedient of kneeling on the bag and yanking with all her might until they surrendered and allowed her to fasten them.

She lay down on the unmade bed and succumbed to the wretched impulse to bury her face for several minutes into the pillow that still held the imprint of Sirius's head and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

When she had officially been dismissed from her job she would probably never even see Arthur again. He might keep in touch for a while but the Ministry was in such an unsettled state his priorities would lie in more important directions. Her ties with the wizarding world and her last links to Ben would be severed.

She stood up and went to the window. Holding the perished curtain aside, she looked from the invisible house with its weedy, inaccessible yard, out over the city full of mysteries. She considered its secrets and hidden places: its underground passages and temples to gods no one knew: its crypts filled with ancient bones: and the unmarked mass graves of plague victims. That was what people died of, she reminded herself. Illness and accident and murder, not broken hearts and unrequited love.

This would be the opportunity for a new start. The incentive she needed to move away from London. Go up north. Live in a cottage. She had friends who might be able to put her in the way of another job.

A soft noise broke her from a reverie involving long broderie anglaise dresses and home-made jam. She blinked, not sure if she had really heard anything or if it had been wishful thinking. There was a frantic burst of scratching and a sad howl.

.

Padfoot whined miserably, and pushed his nose into her hand. Without thinking, she dropped to her knees and buried her hands in the shaggy fur of his neck. She looked into his limpid silver eyes. "Oh sweetie." She sighed and tugged at his velvety ears. "Do you even know who you are?"

He licked her face.

"I'm going to move away," she told him. "Live in the country. I'm going to get the biggest, blackest dog they have in the Dogs' Home. We'll go for long walks together in the hills. Paddle in streams. Collect blackberries and nuts and fir cones and wild flowers."

Padfoot growled and barked.

"It's no good being like that," she said. "What do you expect me to do? Sirius doesn't want me. Do you expect me to go into a decline?"

She hooked her arm through the laces of the shoes that wouldn't fit in her rucksack. "Not one carrier bag in this house," she said. "Twelve cauldrons. Five and a half worn out brooms— don't ask me why a half. Seventy-four empty wine bottles. Yes," she said in answer to Padfoot's curious expression, "including the ones in the piano. And not a single carrier bag."

She shrugged the bulging rucksack on to her shoulder, folded her jacket and sweater over her arm with the shoes and awkwardly picked up her empty cake tin. She maneuvered her way down the stairs feeling her way with her feet. Padfoot followed her, sighing deeply at every other step. In order to open the front door she had to drop everything on the floor and wedge her leg against it to hold it open while she gathered her belongings again.

Padfoot whined at her and sadly swept his tail from side to side on the floor.

"Goodbye, sweetie," she said, her voice cracking. "I'll never forget you."

Padfoot howled in despair.

Julia blinked back tears and stepped through the door.

.

"Stop!"

She turned round. "What?"

"You can't go, Julia. Not like this. I mean . . . well, not yet anyway."

"Un-bel _iev_ able," she said. "Why shouldn't I go?"

"Because—oh, Merlin! Don't you think we should . . . get to know each other a bit?"

"Is that what you call it these days?"

"Just put the bag down and shut the door."

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Please. Put the fucking bag down. And the fucking cake tin. And all that other crap you're carrying."

"You're so strong and masterful," she said. "But not very convincing."

"I want to talk to you."

" _Now_ you want to talk to me?" she said. "Has anyone ever mentioned you have a tendency to leave things to the last possible minute? Give me one good bloody reason to listen to you. You wanker."

"Dammit, Julia, I haven't got a good reason. But think of Padfoot. What will happen to him if you go?

"That," said Julia icily, "is shameless blackmail."

"Of course it is! Oh Merlin, give me the rucksack."

"What?"

"Now."

"What do you want it for?"

"This," he said, taking it and throwing it towards the dining room. He kicked the front door shut. "Now don't struggle."

"Struggle? Why would I struggle?"

He lifted her up and threw her inelegantly over his shoulder.

She gave a maidenly cry of protest but chose not to offer any further resistance in case Sirius changed his mind.

On the first floor landing he put her down. "I'd carry you up to the next floor but I'd probably get a hernia."

"I wouldn't want that," she agreed taking his hand. She led him up the next flight of stairs and along the corridor to her room.

Outside the door he stopped and put his knuckle under her chin, tilting her face up. "You know I haven't got anything to offer you." He laughed bitterly. "What you see is what you get. As you said; a pathetic excuse for a man."

She reached up and traced the furrows that ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. "No, Sirius. You're more than that."

.

* * *

.

To tell the truth, Sirius didn't think he was more than that. He sat down on the edge of the bed feeling gauche and clumsy. The persuasive charm that had always been so effortless had deserted him. He put his hands on her hips pulling her closer, and rested his head against her belly the way Padfoot did. Although she was small and had questionable taste in men, she was strong; she had a core of steel and was tougher than him. Sometimes he felt as if he was held together by threads as tenuous and unreliable as hope and anger.

Julia put two fingers on his forehead and pushed his head back to look at him, stroking a lock of hair away from his face with her thumb. His mother had sometimes brushed his hair back like that; always with disapproval, sometimes with disgust. And girls—lots of girls and a few boys too—had done it with longing and with lust. But Julia did it so that she could see him better.

Those girls in the past, they had liked his pretty face. Loved his stormy eyes, they said. Enjoyed the things he did to them with his hands and his mouth. But this woman was different. And he feared that like everything else in his life, he had buggered it up before it had even begun.

"You didn't trust me," she said."Were you laughing at me? Was I a joke?"

"It wasn't like that."

"No? Then why didn't you tell me?"

He rubbed his face. "I—" He cleared his throat. "If I—If you had known, I wouldn't—you wouldn't—"

"I wouldn't have let Padfoot stay with me at night."

Sirius shrugged and stared at his feet.

"You're right. I wouldn't."

"The other things," Sirius muttered. "The things I said. The things I did. I'm sorry. I thought if I was hurting myself as well, it was somehow all right. But it wasn't, was it?"

"No it wasn't." She held his face in her hands so that he could not turn away.

He took one of her fingers tenderly between his teeth and felt her shiver.

"You have to stop punishing yourself, Sirius, because you are punishing the people who love you as well."

"Nobody loves me," Sirius told her. "Not any more. James is dead."

"I know he is," said Julia.

"He's been dead for nearly fifteen years but sometimes I forget," said Sirius. "Sometimes I forget he's dead. And then I remember and I'm full of rage. A lot of times it's only rage that kept my heart beating. Then I think of Harry. But Harry isn't James. And I'm not what Harry wants me to be or needs me to be. Padfoot doesn't feel rage. The damn dog's too soft for his own good."

"Padfoot," said Julia, "is adorable."

"When James died," said Sirius, taking Julia's small, smooth hands away from his face and studying them in his own big bony ones, "it left a gaping hole inside me. I needed that hole. For twelve years I fed it with anger and hate and madness but . . . it became so huge, I lost myself in it too. But Padfoot never got lost."

"Did I tell you he's adorable?"

"You might have mentioned it."

"And Azkaban?" she prompted.

Sirius shook his head without looking up. "I can't talk about that. Not yet."

He felt Julia nod. She waited for him to continue.

"Then Dumbledore sent you here; and you fell down my stairs and silenced my mother and gave me worming tablets and cod liver oil for my coat and baked me cakes and suddenly the hole started to fill up and . . . I didn't want it to be filled. I wanted to keep the anger alive inside me, do you see? But I couldn't stop it filling up, and now I can't find it at all."

"Such a responsibility," she murmured.

He could not deceive her. "I'm broken, Julia. I don't think I can be mended."

"I know," she said softly, "I know." She stroked his hair back from his face.

He lay back on the bed, pulling her down with him and she put her head on his chest. She lay still and silent for a long time as if she was listening to his heart beating and he started to grow anxious. "Julia," he said at last.

"Hm?"

"What, er, what are you thinking about?"

Her shoulders started to shake

"You're not . . . you're not crying?" He tried to see her face. "You're not crying. What's so funny?"

"You are." She lifted her head and smiled down at him. Then she licked her lips and he offered up a tiny, silent prayer of thanks _,_ holding his breath in anticipation. Finally, after what seemed an unbearable wait, she kissed him on the lips. It was a small, experimental kiss and he kept his arms around her slight frame as gentle as he could, his fingers spread wide and flat on her back.

"Do you . . . want to do that again?" he asked.

"I'm thinking about it," she said noncommittally.

Her lips were warm and soft and her tongue insistent as it pushed into his mouth. He growled deep in his chest when she started to nibble at his lip and then his neck, He held back from the urge to tear her clothes away, and lightly touched the soft swell of her breasts over her shirt, feeling the hard skin on his palms catch against the material.

She paused again. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"What? Bloody hell, of course I'm sure"

"Only you don't seem all that interested."

"Interested! Merlin wept. What do you think this is then?" He grabbed her hand and pressed it against the front of his jeans,

She looked thoughtful and licked her lips again as she stroked the hard length of his cock through the denim and Sirius tried not to howl in desperation. "You certainly feel quite keen, so why do you appear to be lying back and thinking of England?"

"Whatever I'm thinking of, Julia," said Sirius with difficulty, "it's not bloody England."

"Then what's the matter with you? Why aren't you more enthusiastic?"

"Enthusiastic! How about this then?" He grabbed her shirt and ripped it open, sending buttons skittering over the floor.

"That's much better."

He took her breasts in his hands and she arched her back and laughed in delight. He was trying so hard to be gentle, to keep his touches light and soft, he was shaking. The hard calluses on his thumbs scraped across her nipples and she cried out. He groaned and pulled away. "I'm too rough. I'm afraid of hurting you."

"God give me strength," she hissed. "For crying out loud, Sirius, I _like_ it rough!" She grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, and then, Merlin help him, she bit him on the neck and he only managed to avoid the disgrace of coming in his jeans by thinking very hard about Dementors until the danger had passed.

Hungrily, he nipped her with his sharp teeth. She moaned and dug her fingernails into his shoulders. He slid his hands down her belly and unzipped her jeans, tickling his fingertips in complex patterns over her abdomen.

"Oh please," she said plaintively. "Please."

"Enthusiasm?" he murmured.

Eyes closed, she nodded vigorously. "Enthusiasm."

Sirius sat up and knelt on the bed, grasping her waistband. "You'll have to help me out here."

She lifted her hips and Sirius pulled her jeans down and flung them across the room. He skimmed his hands over her legs, up the inside of her thighs and slipped his fingers inside her knickers, finding the secret places where she was slippery and ripe; the places where he rediscovered what he had forgotten, and remembered how to do the things that made Julia's breath come fast and shallow until that part of her body tightened about his fingers and she laughed and cried at the same time and gasped, "You don't know how much—how much—"

Her fingers fumbled at the button of his jeans. He started to undo them for her, but she pushed his hand away and teased him. "Julia. . ." the constriction eased as she unfastened the buttons and began to push his jeans away from his hips. He was so desperate to be touched, his cock was aching. He held his breath and as she took hold of him and explored, the pressure inside him built and built until it was unbearable.

He hooked his arm under her knee and pulled her leg over his shoulder. She stroked his cock for a second, then guided him. In one slick, wet move he was inside her. Holding himself still, he watched her; eyes half open: cheeks and breasts flushed pink and pretty with desire. "Julia," he whispered, "this is us now. It's you and me,"

"It's wonderful," she said, "I can't tell where I end and you begin."

Her hips ground against him and pulled him deeper until he felt the muscles that held him began to ripple and contract. She cried out his name.

The sound carried him to the edge of an orgasm and at last he was spilling into her in helpless gasps for longer than he would have thought possible, until he lay on top of her exhausted and at peace, with her arms around him and her fingers tracking his spine. He wished—oh how he wished—he could stay there forever.

After a time he lifted himself up on his elbows, to ease the weight off her chest. "I've marked you," he said brushing her collarbone with his lips. "Your skin is so soft. I'm not used to it. And here." He touched her breasts. She looked down at where her skin was red and scratched.

"I've marked you too." She kissed the weal on his neck.

"You have," he agreed weaving his fingers into her hair. "Stay with me, Julia."

They slept squashed together in Julia's narrow bed. The repair to the mattress had started to give way, and feathers were collecting in silent drifts on the floor. In the darkness he woke, sweating and frightened, thinking he must have cried out. He should have warned her about the dreams.

Julia was stroking his back. "Who's Mick?" she whispered.

He tensed. "Nobody. Nobody at all. Something I want to forget. I woke you. Maybe I should go leave you in peace."

"Don't you want to sleep with me?"

"I'm keeping you awake."

"I don't mind if you keep me awake."

So he rested his head against the softness of her breasts and she stroked his head until he slept again.

.

.

* * *

.

After breakfast, he led Julia over to the old armchair by the stove and pulled her on to his lap, tucking her head under his chin.

"Now you've had your wicked way with me, madam, I think it's time you told me that thing you've been keeping to yourself."

She nodded against his chest. "Yes, it is."

She slipped off his knee and went over to one of the vast kitchen dressers where she opened a drawer. Sirius racked his brain trying to recall what he kept in there. A couple of old newspapers, he thought, and a photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix that old Mad-Eye had once tried to palm off on an uninterested Harry.

Julia brought back whatever it was she had been searching for and arranged herself in his lap again, pressing herself against him for comfort. He wrapped his arms around her and looked at the thing she was holding.

For a moment he was uncomprehending. "But this is the picture of . . . oh no."

She pointed to one of the familiar faces that smiled out from it. "I was in France. On a student exchange visit. Benjy was at home with our parents. They said it was a gas explosion. But I knew it was . . . You-Know-Who." Her voice was muffled. "It's happening again isn't it? There's going to be another war."

A chill crept up his backbone and settled at the base of his skull. "I think so, yes," He tightened his arms around her small frame, as if by doing that he could keep her safe. And maybe himself, too.

Later that day, he made it his business to renovate another bedroom for the two of them; one with a more generously proportioned bed. Then he unhooked the blanket Julia had, quite understandably, draped over the blank canvas that hung on the wall in her room, relieved to see no sign of Phineas Nigellus who always asked questions Sirius had no answers for.

What was the future for them when this was over? Would she still want him? Would he still want her? He thought it likely. Would she come and live in his world, or would he live in hers? He pushed the thoughts away. The present was all they had. He would not waste it in speculation and dreams.

As the days stretched into weeks, he found it became something of an ambition for him to make love to Julia in as many different places in his house as possible, although she proved disappointingly unadventurous when he tried to seduce her on the stairs in front of his mother's portrait, and was equally resolute about Buckbeak's room, citing the unsanitary conditions and powerful odour of hippogriff as her reasons.

.

In spite of her comforting presence, and the warmth she brought into his life, sometimes unwelcome memories came to the forefront of his mind, and sometimes he needed to be alone or was simply unwilling to inflict his misery on her. And sometimes, too, the walls of the house closed in on him and he found it hard even to remember that outside there was a world of wind and sun, of clouds and rain and earth.

Surely she could take him out and run with him in the park, and let him chase pigeons into the sky. Just once? He scratched at the front door and begged her to take him out.

"Sweetie," she said, "I can't! it's too dangerous. I know, I really do, how much you want to go out, but I just can't!"

She left him by the door for a few minutes, but returned with something in her hand. "Come into the kitchen with me, sweetie." She made him lie down on the shabby hearthrug in front of the stove, and groomed him with an old comb for hours until his coat felt like silk and crackled with sparks, and every inch of his skin tingled.

.


	19. Understandings and Misunderstandings

.

Sirius leaned over Julia's shoulder to dip a piece of bread into the juice oozing from several sizzling rashers of bacon she was stirring around a frying pan with a fork. An appealing freckle under her ear distracted him for a moment and he paused to nip the back of her neck. Usually that made her sigh and arch her back, but this time she gave a deep groan, clapped her hand over her mouth and dashed out of the room. He impressed himself by having the presence of mind to push the frying pan away from the flame before hurrying after her in alarm.

Standing outside the bathroom door, he gave a tentative knock. "Julia?"

"It's not locked."

She had been sick and was kneeling, resting her head on the porcelain of the toilet bowl.

He knelt beside her and pushed a lock of hair back from her face. "Are you ill?

With an expression of complete misery, she looked at him and shook her head. Then she closed her eyes. "No, Sirius. I'm not ill. I'm pregnant."

He stood up in shock and stepped backwards, but his legs felt unsteady, and he sat down heavily on the side of the bath. "Merlin's beard! Are you sure?"

There was a sharp edge to her voice. "What do you think? We haven't exactly been careful have we? I'm sorry . . . but I'm thirty-two, Sirius. I didn't think this would ever happen for me."

He buried his head in his hands. The world felt unstable. "Fuck. Fuck. Double-fuck. I can't—I thought you Muggle women were all on the pill!" The words had spewed, acrid, from his mouth before he had time to pull them back. Even wizards cannot recall words once spoken or undo cruelty once done. The anguish on her face hit him like a sledgehammer.

Stumbling to her feet with a sob, she ran from the room in distress, slamming the door behind her.

"Oh, Merlin! _Julia!"_

He jumped up and followed, calling her name, but she ignored him, When he got down to the entrance hall, the front door was closing behind her.

.

For several insane seconds he contemplated following her out onto the street, but a remnant of common sense prevailed. He sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting, with a wary eye on the curtains covering his mother's portrait. After half an hour had stretched into an hour, then an hour and a half, he realised the pointlessness of it. Julia would be gone for as long as she needed to be, but he was sure she would not stay away. It was not in her nature to leave things unfinished.

He piled the cold rashers on to a slice of bread and took it upstairs, eating as he walked, thinking about babies and Julia. At thirty-two, she was older than he had supposed, and if she wanted babies she should have them. And if she was to have them, then it seemed only right that they should be his babies. His mind turned to fatherhood and Harry and James and how, if Julia did not come back, one way or another he would have to find her.

Eventually, he could not think any more and let Padfoot take over, patient and still in a second floor bedroom, resting his nose on his paws by Buckbeak's side.

.

* * *

.

Julia leaned back against the door of her flat. She had felt the chill and despair of the Dementors outside Sirius's house and a little of the unease still lingered somewhere at the bottom of her skull.

She picked her post up off the doormat and sorted through it. Her flat did not feel quite like home anymore. Even though her things were still there it had developed an atmosphere of abandonment.

She dropped her clothes on the floor and sat down in the shower, letting water as hot as she could tolerate cascade over her.

.

All of a sudden the practicalities were overwhelming. She had no job or close relatives and her baby's father seemed to want nothing to do with them. How would she manage? She wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to make herself as small as she could, as if she could wash herself away down the plughole.

She did not have to go through with it. She could pick the telephone up and make an appointment with her doctor. In a couple of weeks this could all be a memory.

She dried herself, rubbing so hard with the towel that her skin became pink and tender.

Feeling chilled and alone, she pulled the belt of her thick bathrobe tight about her middle, then picked up the telephone receiver and held it to her ear, listening to the dry crackly buzz of the dial tone.

.

A tiny collection of cells was dividing in her womb. She pressed her empty hand against her stomach as if she might be able to feel the embryo growing. What would it feel like to have another person inside you? Was giving birth as awful as it looked? How strange and wonderful it would be to have a baby sucking at her breast.

She put the receiver down again.

Would the child be wild and reckless like Sirius, or dull and sensible like her? Would it be magical? What sort of birthright had she inadvertently given her baby? No, she did not regret what had happened, but it did raise a whole lot of new problems.

Did Sirius really mean what he had said? He was complicated and troubled, but she hadn't thought he was a deliberately cruel man. Yet in the Ministry, some of the older pure-blood wizards considered Muggle women to be barely human; chattels to be used and discarded without a moment's thought. Now and then—and more often of late—she had heard dark hints . . . but Arthur had always looked grim and changed the subject if she tried to ask.

Was her judgement so poor? She had thought Sirius was different, but perhaps after all he was just another privileged pure-blood.

.

Would he ever think about her? About the baby he had fathered? In the years that followed would he ever wonder where they were? What they were doing?

She had to know. She had to go back to Grimmauld Place one last time.

.

* * *

.

The daylight was fading when Padfoot heard the front door open and listened as Julia climbed the stairs, going straight to her old room. He padded after her, found the door ajar, and pushed his way in. She was sitting on the broken chair by the dressing table, brushing her hair. Confidently, he parked his chin on her knee and looked up at her.

"Sirius?"

He whined.

"Padfoot, then." He licked her hand.

"You can't spend your life as a dog just to avoid talking to me."

He licked her again and slapped his tail on the floor apologetically, not seeing a particular problem.

She climbed into bed, and he jumped up beside her.

"I can do this alone, you know. You needn't worry. But I wish things were different. . . oh hell." Tears were running down her cheeks. He licked them away.

She wrapped her arms around him, buried her face in his coat and cried into it until at last, exhausted, she slept.

Before daybreak he slipped away from her. As he left the room, he whispered, "It will be all right, sweetheart, it will, I promise."

.

The tall drawing room windows looked out across the streets and terraces and green parks of the sleeping city, towards the lightening sky. If his house had a heart, it was in here, in the tapestry. The magic that circulated through its walls and floors and breathed in its spaces began and ended in here. As dark as it was, it made him strong.

Thoughtfully, he opened one of the dusty, glass-fronted cabinets that flanked the fireplace. After a moment's consideration he picked out an ornament, dusted it against his sleeve and weighed it in his hands. _Yes,_ he thought, _that will do_. He replaced it on the clean patch circled by dust, and pushed the door shut. Leaning against the cool marble, with his hands on the mantelpiece, he stared down into the fireplace.

 _Prongs? I could do with a word, mate._

The sooty darkness in the hearth shifted and he saw James—and Lily with him. Both of them smiled at him. _Good on yer, son,_ said James with a wink. Then they were gone.

Looking up into the cracked and dirty overmantel mirror, Sirius studied his reflection dispassionately. He wanted to make something for Julia; something to show her that he cared. _A red rose;_ it was symbolic. Everyone understood that, didn't they?

Sitting on the floor, washed by the pink light of the summer morning, he took his wand from where he kept it tucked into his belt loops, and set to work.

.

The vast bathtub was perched on serpent-shaped feet. The enamel was chipped around the rim and stained with decades of dripping taps. He prepared a deep bath and found some thick towels in a blanket chest. They smelled slightly of camphor, but at least they were clean and dry. In the dining room he located a tea tray inlaid with mother of pearl, and a finely painted porcelain teapot. He took them into the kitchen, washed the dust from them, and made a pot of tea. He put the rose beside them on the tray, and carried it upstairs. Outside Julia's door, he paused and knocked, taking an indistinct grumble as an invitation to enter. Her face was pale and blotchy and her hair was tousled and sticking out in all directions.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I am a complete arsehole. You deserve better than me." He put the tray down on a bedside table and tucked a pillow against the iron bedstead.

"Yes," she said, pulling herself up to sit against it. "I do."

Silently, he sat on the edge of the bed and handed her the rose, wanting her to understand.

She took it in her hand, put it to her lips. "This is a real rose. Did you make this? That's strong magic." All of a sudden, she swallowed and her face took on a grey pallor. "Sorry," she said, "I've got to"—she tumbled out of bed and dashed for the bathroom.

Helplessly, she retched into the toilet and Sirius stroked her back and shoulders, drawing some of the nausea away. He rinsed a cloth in the warm rose-scented water of the bath and wiped her face. Then he kissed her.

"Oh don't, Sirius, I'm disgusting."

Twelve years in Azkaban had inured him to every imaginable sort of bodily excretion. He could not imagine ever finding Julia disgusting. "Don't be silly," he said. "Can you stand up?"

"I suppose so." She got to her feet and stood before him.

He put his hands on her hips and pressed his head to her belly, closing his eyes. Julia's hands were in his hair, her fingers pressing into his scalp. He saw her future. Her belly swollen and hard; the muscles of her stomach rippling in contractions. He heard the sound of panting and pain and effort. Then he saw the tiny thing laid on her sweating breast; creased, wet with mucus and streaked with blood. He heard the first sticky indrawn breath and a thin cry of protest, and looked to see—a baby girl.

Inside the vision, he said, "Your daddy loves you, you know, little one." The deep blue eyes of the new-born opened, looked at him for a moment and then the vision was gone.

"My daughter," he said with relief. "I shouldn't have a son. The line should end with me." There was a faint snapping noise and a jagged crack fractured one of the window panes.

Julia looked sceptical, but did not argue. With a grunt of effort, he picked her up and carried her over to the huge bath.

She looked down at it for so long, Sirius was afraid he had made a horrible mistake. And his back was hurting.

Then she dipped her hand into the delicately fragranced water and swished it about. "Rose petals!" she was half-laughing and half-crying. "You sod," she said. "Have you any idea how long it takes to run a bath in here without magic? Half an hour, Sirius! For six inches of tepid water with bits in."

"I can't hold you any longer," he said. "You're putting my back out." She squealed as he dumped her inelegantly into the bath and water slopped over the sides.

"Ah! Sirius!" She sank back. "Oh, this is lovely." She looked up at him. "Aren't you going to join me?"

"Most certainly I am." He shrugged his shirt off without looking away from her face.

She licked her lips hungrily, and he was already hard as he kicked his jeans across the floor. "Like what you see?"

"You know I do. Turn around." He stood still with his back to her, feeling her gaze like warm fingers running up and down his spine.

"You're beautiful," she said, "but I need to take a closer look. Come here."

He slipped into the bath in front of her, so that they were facing each other. He wiped wet rose petals off her shoulders and breasts, pleased to see her nipples stiffen at his touch. "They're not very practical are they?"

"I love them," she said. "I might think about forgiving you."

She traced the dark patterns on his chest where ash and soot had been rubbed into incisions in his skin to leave him permanently marked. Her fingers paused on the one below his left pectoral. "What's this? It's not quite the same as the others. It's more like a burn."

His immediate instinct was to gloss over it; make light of it; claim forgetfulness. But she was entitled to honesty. She had laid her own heart open before him. Now he owed her the same.

His voice was harsher than he meant it to be. "It's an ownership brand." He turned his face to the wall, afraid of the pity and disgust he would see in her eyes.

"Oh, my love!"

He took a deep breath and sank beneath the bath water into the muffled rush and gurgle. Like cobwebs in a breeze, his hair floated weightless around his head, and he held her hand like a lifeline. When his lungs were bursting he lifted his head above the water and gulped at the steamy air.

.

She took his hand and held his palm against her cheek. "If you ever want to talk about it you can. And if you don't, well that's all right too. I'll never ask, I promise."

To his surprise, he did find himself telling her, his mouth dry as he spoke, about Azkaban. About how, to survive in there, you had to bend and shape to it. You had to embrace the chaos. Or you had to be so hard and tough and inflexible it would not crush you. Or you had to have a protector. And he told her about how a pretty young man in a place like that was in no position to refuse the protection that was offered, though the price was high. And how you can get used to anything in the end. And how there were times when any sort of tenderness kept him from the abyss of madness.

Although she cried for him, when she kissed the mark and said, "No more, Sirius. It means nothing any more. It's just a mark on your skin." it surprised him to discover she was speaking the truth.

As water splashed to the floor and ran between the floorboards, and wet rose petals stuck to every surface and found their way into every gap, she straddled him, sliding over and wriggling her hips until everything else retreated into irrelevance. Slipping his hand between, to where the two of them were moving together, he found the place that made Julia whimper and shiver, and the noises she made intensified his own excitement. Her hands were clasping his face, and he watched her watching him, until his eyes closed of their own volition and with a moan, he gave himself up to her.

.

Later in the day when hunger had driven them out of their sweaty, rumpled bed and they had eaten a late and very leisurely lunch, he said Julia, "I want to give you something."

"You don't need to give me anything."

"Yes I do," he said. "It's important. Come to the drawing room with me."

He went directly to the cabinet beside the fireplace and took out the ornament he had chosen earlier, holding it out to her, hoping she would take it from him before objecting or arguing. "I want you to have this."

To his relief, she took hold of it before looking at it properly. As she studied the heavy, black-enamelled gold-chased egg, her eyes widened. "I don't think I can take this. If it's what I think it is, it's too much."

"Too late," he said. "I've already given it to you. The rules governing ownership of the things in this house are. . . complicated. Put it away somewhere Kreacher won't look and forget about it."

For several seconds, Julia held the object in her hands looking from it to him and back again, until finally, she nodded and left the room.

Sirius stood with his hands clasped behind his back looking out of the arched windows with an unfamiliar sense of well-being and satisfaction.

.

After a few minutes, she came back carrying something in her hand. She held it up to show him. "Look, I've found my camera. I'd forgotten I had it. Can I take your picture? It probably won't come out properly anyway."

Grinning at her, he raised his eyebrows and struck a pose. "Go ahead."

"I saw a local paper yesterday," she said, squinting through the viewfinder and pressing the shutter. "I was curious to know what had happened to the crypt. According to the report, the archaeological investigations have been suspended. They said the rumours about an ancient abbey were wrong and the ground was falling into the remains of a Second World War bomb shelter. They're going to fill it with concrete."

She stood behind Sirius as he gazed out of the window and put her arms round him, laying her head against his back. He put his hands over hers. "That sounds like Kingsley's work."

A crash followed by a dreadful shriek sounded from somewhere on the floor above.

"Buckbeak!" exclaimed Sirius. He didn't wait for Julia, but raced out on to the landing and took the stairs three at a time ahead of her.

.

Walburga Black's bedroom was a good forty feet long, twenty feet wide and fifteen feet high, but it had never been intended to accommodate an agonised and terrified hippogriff with a beak like an anvil, talons like steel meat hooks and a twelve foot wingspan. A smoky haze hung in the air, and there was a dreadful stench of burnt hair and skin.

Buckbeak was making earsplitting, high-pitched squawks and trying to fly, but he did not have enough space or height to take off properly. He collided with the top of the four poster bed and the thick hangings fell down in a cloud of dust with the frenzied hippogriff on top of them. Trailing a curtain which had caught up on one of his talons he clumsily launched himself off the bed towards the the sash window and shattered the glass.

Julia ducked and a razor-sharp claw missed her face by inches as Buckbeak crashed blindly into one wall then another, gouging holes in the plaster and bringing the chandelier and half the ceiling down.

"He's going to hurt himself even more!" she cried. "What can we do?

Sirius pulled Julia behind him. "Keep back." He pointed his wand at Buckbeak. " _Tranquillius!"_

The frantic hippogriff landed awkwardly, staggered and collapsed to the floor chirping gently. Kneeling down by Buckbeak's side, Sirius unhooked the curtain from the beast's claw then examined the deep wound on his flank. "This is bad! How the hell did it happen?"

Julia had Buckbeak's head on her lap soothing him, although he was more or less unconscious. "I think it was Kreacher. I passed him on the landing. He was laughing. Didn't you see? Why would he do this?"

Sirius looked at her, incredulous. His house-elf had done this? The bloody thing had finally flipped! He knew Dumbledore thought it was more secure for him to keep the elf close by, but this was the last straw. This time it was clothes. "I'll fucking kill it!"

"Not now, you won't. Buckbeak needs your help."

The wound on the hippogriff's flank was deep. The burn had eaten through the coarse fur and hide and the thick layer of subcutaneous fat and into the muscle, but not, Sirius decided after several anxious exploratory minutes, any internal organs. He concentrated on cleaning and initiating the healing process on the injury, working bit by bit from the inside out. Engrossed in the task, he hardly noticed the passage of time, but Julia shifted and stretched in discomfort with Buckbeak's head heavy on her knees.

"I've done as much as I can," Sirius said making a final pass of his wand. He looked towards the window, surprised to see it was dark outside. "He'll be all right. I don't think the hair will grow again though. There'll be a hell of a scar."

Julia dragged her legs from under the hippogriff and Sirius helped her to her feet. "I want you to know something," she said.

"What's that?" Sirius grinned and picked bits of plaster off her head.

"I love you."

No knowing how to respond, he stilled. "Julia, I—"

She put a finger to his lips. "Don't say anything. I just needed you to know that whatever happens, I love you."

Sirius, pulled her into his arms. "Thank you," he whispered against her hair.

.

As they stepped out into the corridor they heard the distant sound of the front door opening.

"Are you expecting someone?" asked Julia

Sirius shook his head. "It must be urgent." There was a crash and someone swore.

They looked at each other. "Tonks!" The portrait of Sirius's mother started to howl. They hurried downstairs, and Julia carelessly flicked the curtains closed on the portrait as she passed.

.

Tonks looked tense. "You're both covered in dust. Have you been doing a bit of what Grandad Tonks calls Dee-Eye-Why? We've got an emergency. Sorry, Jules—"

"I know," said Julia. "Order business. I'll get out of the way. Shout if you need me."

As she made her way back up the stairs, Sirius watched her retreat, and dread trickled like melting ice between his shoulder blades.

.


	20. Trouble in the Ministry

.

Sirius looked back at Tonks, who jerked her head towards the kitchen and hurried down the passage without waiting.

He followed her in. "What's going on?"

"You'll find out soon enough," she said. "The others will be here any—"

Remus burst through the door followed by the limping Alastor Moody, and rather more sedately, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"What the devil is going on?" demanded Sirius again.

"It's Harry," said Remus.

"Harry! What?" A cold fist clenched in Sirius's chest. He looked at Kingsley. "What's happened to Harry?

"Nothing yet—as far as we know. We're waiting for Severus, he has more information."

"Snape? What the fuck has he got to do with it?"

"Sirius, please," sighed Kingsley.

Sirius scowled but shut his mouth and sat down on the edge of the table.

They heard the front door open again and all eyes watched as Severus Snape entered the kitchen wearing his characteristically severe black robes like armour. Sirius fought to contain the revulsion he felt for the man.

"What can you tell us, Severus?" asked Kingsley.

Snape looked even paler than usual. There were dark shadows under his eyes and his face was drawn. "It appears that Harry is attempting to get into the Ministry. He seems to be under the impression that the Dark Lord has Black imprisoned there."

Sirius stared at him. "Me? What the—? Why would he think that?"

Snape gave him a glittering, impenetrable look.

"Well, what are we hanging about for?" Sirius jumped up. "We'd better go hadn't we?"

"Not you, Black." Snapes voice was level and cold. "You are required to remain here until Dumbledore arrives."

"What?" Sirius's voice rose in fury. "You are joking!" He looked around at the others who seemed unwilling to offer him any support.

"I never joke, Black."

"Keep the fuck out of it, Snivellus or I'll knock your fucking head off!"

"That is just what I would expect from a savage like you, Black," said Snape. "It is such a shame your intellect is no match for your . . . baser instincts."

"What the fuck? You bastard!" Sirius snatched his wand from his waistband but before he could even point it at Snape, Moody had summoned it into his own hand.

Snape smiled mockingly, and Sirius drew his arm back for a punch but Remus grabbed him. "No, Sirius!"

.

* * *

.

For a while Julia sat on the stairs where she would not be seen. She did not care for the way she was almost invisible in this world. Once again she was reminded of how she did not quite fit. Her relationship with Sirius seemed such a delicate fantasy, she was afraid to expose it to harsh reality in case it proved to be no more than a daydream. She was not at all sure of him and imagined that Remus and Tonks—even Arthur—would disapprove.

Depressed, she went to inspect Buckbeak's wound. It was healing well and he did not appear to be in any discomfort. She made sure there was clean water for him and swept up the debris that littered the floor, then headed for her own old room and collected together the few things she had left in there.

Malfais' book really should be returned to the Ministry. She wrapped it up and put it in the bottom of her rucksack, dropping her camera and torch in on top of it. No doubt Sirius would mock her for sentimentality, but she wrapped his rose in the dog-eared paper on which she had drawn the Black family tree and put that in her bag too.

As she made her way across the first floor landing, she realised she could hear raised voices from downstairs. Angry ones; _well, mainly Sirius's angry voice_ , she thought in resignation, and after depositing her bag and jacket at the top of the stairs, went down to the kitchen to investigate.

Sirius was livid with fury. Remus looked unhappy but determined, Tonks embarrassed, and Moody implacable. Kingsley was impassive and observant, his arms folded. Someone else Julia didn't know was there with them. A dark-haired, thin man with a sallow complexion, and a hooked nose. He was eyeing Sirius with absolute loathing but turned his head to look at Julia as she entered, his cold black eyes hostile and suspicious. Something disgusting pushed at her mind and she recoiled. "Get out of my head!" she cried, revolted.

The dark-haired wizard gasped and stumbled in shock.

Sirius gave his harsh, barking laugh "Oh yeah, Snivellus, don't underestimate the Muggle! Of course I'm coming with you! How can you think I would just stay here like a miserable coward while you're fighting!"

"Sirius?" Julia stepped to his side and touched his arm, willing him to calm down.

"Julia," said Remus, "please will you talk some sense into Sirius? Harry is in trouble at the Ministry. We have to go, but Sirius mustn't come with us. It may be a trap and we need someone here to tell Dumbledore what is happening."

.

* * *

.

Sirius kicked at a chair, sending it skidding across the floor and clattering into the coal bucket. "I can't believe this! They just left me!" He gripped Julia's shoulders hard. "They're in danger! Harry's in danger. I can't just stay here!" He pulled her tight against him and spoke over her head. "I've got to go. You understand don't you?" He pulled back and looked down at her. There was a purpose in his eyes she had never seen before.

She swallowed hard and nodded, fearing that she would be unable to speak.

Sirius pressed a quick, hard kiss on her forehead then turned and ran up the stairs. Julia followed as fast as she could but when she reached him, he was standing by the fireplace in the drawing room, shaking with fury.

"It's gone!" He swept his hand violently across the mantelpiece sending several ornaments crashing to the floor.

"What's gone?"

"The Floo powder. Remus has taken it away, the bastard! I thought he was my friend. I'll kill him for this. I'll strangle him with my bare hands!"

"No you won't." Julia tried not to let Sirius see her relief. "He is your friend. He's trying to protect you."

"How can I—I can't get into the Ministry without it!" Sirius's voice was so choked he could hardly talk. Julia had never seen him look so desperate. "I . . ." he looked towards the window helplessly.

"I'm sure they'll be all right," she offered weakly.

Sirius shook his head and sank on to a sofa, burying his face in his hands.

Julia surrendered, beaten by Sirius's misery. "I can get you into the Ministry," she said. "There's a—rear entrance."

Sirius looked up. "So many jokes, so little time," he said but Julia did not smile.

"It's through the D3M. I've got a key."

"The D3M?"

"The Department of Machinery and Magical Modifications on Level Six. The entrance is behind King's Cross station. But you can't Apparate because of the Dementors and even if I can find a cab that will carry Padfoot, it will take at least half an hour to get there."

"That's too long!" said Sirius in despair.

"Can you think of another way?"

"The only other way would be a Portkey," said Sirius bitterly, "and I don't happen to have one lying about."

"Portkey!" said Julia staring at him. She dashed out of the drawing room and snatched her jacket up from where she had left it on top of her rucksack. "I remember helping Benjy study the theory," she told Sirius, rummaging through the pockets. "You can use any object which is linked to the destination point."

"I know that, Julia," said Sirius. "Portkeys used to be one of my specialities. But"—he waved his hand around helplessly—"there's nothing here that's linked to any location near the Ministry."

"There is," said Julia putting something into his hand.

"A Muggle marker pen," said Sirius in surprise. "I remember these. Much better than quills."

"Exactly," said Julia. "Permanent. Waterproof. There's a bench outside the station. I sat there and ate a sandwich. It wasn't a very good sandwich. Stale. Not enough cheese.

"We're running out of time, sweetheart. Get to the point."

"While I was sitting on the bench I wrote something on it with this pen."

"I thought you'd been brought up better than that," said Sirius.

"It was a momentary aberration," said Julia defensively. "But it would work as a link wouldn't it?"

Sirius nodded slowly. "If you can remember what you wrote."

"I can. It was more intellectual than the other things which were mostly, _Tracey is a slag_ and pictures of willies. I wrote"—she paused—" _Tomorrow will be dying."_

" _The same flower that blooms today._ Cheerful," said Sirius. "And possibly prescient. Do you have the Sight?"

Julia shrugged. "I wasn't feeling very cheerful at the time."

Sirius put the pen down on the grubby seat of the sofa and closed his eyes. "It's a long time since I've done this." He pointed his wand at the pen and muttered under his breath. The pen glowed a bright fluorescent green for a second. "I think that's it," he said. "We'll know soon enough."

"Professor Dumbledore will be expecting to find you here," Julia pointed out. "Shall we leave a note?"

Sirius shook his head. "No time. _Kreacher!"_ The house elf appeared at the other end of the room and stayed well out of reach by the tapestry. "Kreacher," said Sirius in a voice rigid with distaste, "when Dumbledore gets here, tell him I've joined the Order at the Ministry. Understand?"

Before he vanished with a _crack_ , Kreacher burst into shrill peals of laughter which chilled Julia to the bone. Surely the elf had no choice but to obey the instruction?

"I would like to take both Kreacher and Snivellus," said Sirius, "and drop them together from the top of Beachy Head."

"Perhaps you'll get your chance," said Julia picking up her rucksack. "I'll use Malfais' book as an excuse to be in the Ministry if anyone asks why I'm there. Are we ready?"

"You'll have to let this happen, Julia."

"I know," she said, rubbing the back of her hand.

"Take my wand. And please don't neutralise it."

"I couldn't do that, could I?" she asked.

"Let's hope not. Just don't touch it." He slid it into her bag.

"Sirius." She touched his neck where she could see the pulse beating steady between a cluster of dark dots. "If I asked you not to go, what would you do?"

He stilled, his face closed. "If you asked me not to go," he said at last, "then I wouldn't. Are you asking?"

"No, Sirius, I won't ask that of you. But I'm frightened. You will be careful, won't you? _Promise_ me?"

.

He wagged his tail.

"All right," she said. "Here we go then." She hitched her rucksack on to her shoulder, held Padfoot tightly around his neck with one hand, and reached for the pen with the other.

.

.

He licked her hand where it was holding her hair back from her face as she leaned over the back of the bench and vomited into a flower bed. Most of the few passers-by gave her a wide berth. If any looked as if they might come to help, he snarled at them, looking dangerous and aggressive.

.

When she had collected herself, she scrambled to her feet. "This way. Ugh." She pressed her hand into her stomach. "It worked, at least." She groped in her bag for her torch, then led him at a jog down a narrow road next to the station and turned into a low entrance set in a featureless wall. The asphalt surface dropped into a steep ramp and she ducked under a yellow and black barrier that bore a sign saying _Maintenance Vehicles Only. No Unauthorised Access_. As they ran, the weak light from Julia's torch bounced off bare brick walls on either side of a narrow roadway.

After a few hundred yards the tunnel was barred by a set of heavy iron gates and they had to stop. Julia took a large key from the inside pocket of her jacket and fitted it into a hefty lock. It was stiff and took both hands to turn. With a loud clunk the gate swung open. She took the key out and urged Padfoot through, pulling the gate closed behind them.

Padfoot matched his lope to her steady jog through a workshop so long he could not sense the end of it. Yellow lights hung on long chains from the middle of the arched roof. A row of rail tracks ran along the floor, and maintenance bays were set into the side walls. He recognised the big purple shape of the Knight Bus in one and a couple of long, black Muggle motor cars in another. Among appliances he did not recognise were bicycles, lawnmowers and even a few of the moving-picture boxes he had watched in Julia's flat. No one was about but engine casings and car bonnets had been left open and tools lay abandoned on the ground.

As they approached the end of the cavernous workshop, Julia and Padfoot joined several people, jumpy and nervous, who were being waved hurriedly through another set of gates by a wizard in a peaked cap. He showed no surprise at seeing a breathless woman with a dog bringing up the rear, and rushed them past without question, clearly keen to get everyone out and make his own exit.

Beyond the gates, there was a pervading atmosphere of anxiety and disorganisation. Other than a few odd glances, no-one took any notice of the two of them and Julia led Padfoot off down a quiet side corridor where he sniffed out an unlocked empty room. They slipped quietly inside.

"The Apparition Test Centre," Julia wheezed, trying to catch her breath. "I begin to see the appeal. I've never been any good at running."

Padfoot shook himself from head to toe as if shaking water from his coat.

.

Sirius retrieved his wand from her bag. He took her in his arms and rested his chin on her head. "We haven't had enough time."

"Time brings all things to an end." Julia shook her head against his chest. "Sorry. Inappropriate. It's a line from a song. It just popped into my head."

"I wish things had been different," said Sirius. "There are so many things I should have told you. They'll want you to forget. But please . . . don't forget me."

"Sirius?" She pulled back in alarm. "What do you mean? Of course I won't forget you. Be safe. Come back to me. We need you. And you need us."

"I will come back. I promise I'll come back." And it felt like the truth as he spoke. Then he kissed her for as long as he dared.

.

If only they _had_ had more time. With foreboding, he remembered Dumbledore's words, and the Faberge egg he had given Julia. He remembered what he had seen when he pressed his face to her belly, and he knew that everything _would_ be all right; but maybe not for him. And then he thought that perhaps in any case, love alone would never have repaired the damage inside him, and perhaps, too, he was ready for what was to come.

He rested his forehead on hers."I've got to find the others."

As he ran for the lift he could still taste her, but travelling down, deeper into the Ministry—as he moved away from her—he could no longer feel her thoughts and her worry, and he focused on what was ahead.

.

* * *

.

Something like a rock had lodged between Julia's stomach and her lungs. The taste of Sirius—cigarette smoke and excitement—was still on her lips but the inside of her mouth tasted sour. Once in a while a witch or wizard hurried past the open door but no one stopped to ask what her business was. In all likelihood she would be perfectly safe there for the time being.

 _You coward,_ she thought to herself. _Hiding in here like a mouse_. She needed to know what was going on. Level Three would do to start with; she would go to her office.

She could hear the distant metallic rattle of the lifts but did not want to find herself face to face with Yaxley or Malfoy or any other haughty wizard who looked at her as if she was an unwelcome pest. Fortunately, a number of years ago she had discovered that the key she used to get into the D3M also opened the unused doors at the end of the south corridors on each floor. Doors that opened into a gloomy, unlit flight of stairs that went from above Level One all the way down to Level Eight.

.

.

It would not be true to say she had become precisely fond of the house on Grimmauld Place, but she had grown used to its spaces; its lofty ceilings and generous proportions. Although the door stood ajar, in her little office she fancied she was inside a box. The air was close and heavy but ice was forming at the edges of her window.

Impulsively she dropped the little brass sign into her pocket before taking Malfais' book out of her bag and puttng it on the desk. Surely someone would find it and take it back to the Archives. She would tell Arthur where it was. Would he be in his office now? She could ask him what was happening.

.

But Level Two was as deserted as Level Three, and Arthur's office was locked.

She hurried down the stairs as far as they went; to level eight and the Atrium. Cautiously she stepped out into the empty corridor and listened. Faint noises drifted from below. Clanging lifts, heavy footsteps and the crackle of spells. Explosions, crashes, and shouting. What on earth was happening down there? Could she really smell sulphur and see wisps of smoke or was it her imagination? Was Sirius safe? She wouldn't be at all surprised to find he was responsible for the noise.

.

* * *

.

.

Slamming out of the lift, Sirius sprinted for the Department of Mysteries. All his doubts were gone. When this was done, they were going to make plans, he and Julia. They were going to be a family. Adrenaline and magic pumped through his veins. He was strong again. He was Sirius Black. He was unstoppable, unbeatable, unbreakable.

He slowed, feeling the way. Tonks was close by. And he could feel. . . ah, Bellatrix. If Bellatrix was there, this would be nasty. But both of them were off in the same direction, and he followed his instinct to a featureless black door at the end of a long corridor.

As he opened the door of the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, the uncomfortable notion that there was only one way through took hold in his mind, but he pushed the thought aside. Beyond the door was a circular chamber with identical, unmarked doors all the way around. With relief he saw that the space was already occupied.

Tonks was the first to see him, her eyes widening. "Sirius! What are you doing here?" She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. "You're back!" She gave him a smacking kiss on the lips. "Remus, look! It's Sirius, and he's back!"

Three other pairs of eyes were watching him. Remus looked worried. "How did you get here, Sirius?"

"No thanks to you. Julia got me in." Sirius held Remus's anxious gaze. "Don't look at me like that. She knew what she was doing and she can take care of herself. We. . . yeah."

Remus grinned ruefully. "I told you so, didn't I?"

"Told me so, what?"

"Told you Julia could help you, if you'd let her." He put a fist in the air. "Good to have you back, mate."

Sirius punched it gently with his own. "Good to be back. Now haven't we got a job to do?"

Mad-Eye clapped him on the shoulder, and Kingsley said, "It looks as if we need all the help we can get, so since you're here, you may as well make yourself useful. Welcome back on the team, Sirius." Sirius nodded in acknowledgement.

.

"There's a bunch of Death Eaters down here," said Mad-Eye. "How many are there, Kingsley?"

"We think between ten and twelve," said Kingsley, "but—"

Sirius interrupted. "Bellatrix is here, and Lucius."

"How the hell do you know that?" asked Remus.

Sirius gave a twisted smile. "I always know when I'm near to my relatives."

Mad-Eye gave a sardonic grunt.

Wearing an expression of intense concentration Kingsley fiddled with his gold earring.

Sirius looked at Mad-Eye, puzzled. "What's he doing, Alastor?"

Mad-Eye held his hand up in a gesture for him to wait.

"They're in the Hall of Prophecies," said Kingsley.

"This is your turf, Kingsley," said Mad-Eye. "Lead the way."

.


	21. Endings and Beginnings

.

The light was so harsh, Sirius had to blink as his eyes adjusted to the glare. A million ticks a second, interspersed now and then with chimes and shrill alarms, made the air vibrate. His ears, sensitised by the time he spent as a dog, rebelled. The noise buzzed in his head and made him feel sick and dizzy.

The room was long. Rows of tables, display cases, and cabinets were arranged along each side with just a narrow walkway between them. Displayed haphazardly in every available space—packed into cabinets, standing on the floor, fixed to the backs of doors, and hanging from the ceiling—were timepieces of every conceivable and many an inconceivable description. Wrist watches, pocket watches, stopwatches, sundials, moon phase clocks, Antikythera and orreries, grandfather and grandmother clocks, mantelpiece clocks, cuckoo clocks, weather clocks, dripping water clocks and burning candle clocks, all battled to be seen and heard. But there were spaces where objects had been swept away or dislodged. Broken glass and splintered wood, clockwork mechanisms and twisted metal littered the floor. They had to scramble over a grandfather clock which had fallen across the aisle.

At the far end of the room, a huge, clear bell jar, as tall as a man, glittered, bright as the sun, throwing visible beams of light in every direction and casting long shadows behind the five of them. Inside the great jar something moved, drifting, with an occasional wriggle, from the bottom to the top.

Close to the bell jar, a tall glass-fronted cabinet fell forward. An instant before hitting the floor it righted itself and flew back against the wall, immediately falling again in a silent, repeating cycle of destruction and reconstruction. Inside it, hourglasses of all shapes and sizes spun and glittered, blinking in and out of existence.

Above the door through which they had entered, Sirius saw a gigantic clock on the wall, much like the railway station clocks he remembered from his youth. He noticed that the number twelve was where the three should be, with the one above it, and the two above that; and what he had taken to be a second hand was moving erratically and changing direction. He had a sense of slipping sideways and put his hand against the edge of a table to steady himself.

Behind him, he heard Kingsley say: "It is a common misconception that Time is universal. For you and I, it moves only in one direction, but in other _wheres_ and other _whens_ , who can say?"

Sirius turned to look at Kingsley's dark, inscrutable face and when he turned back to the immense clock, all the numbers had switched places.

.

A loud cry drew everyone's attention. The body of a man with the head of a baby, red face screwed up in outrage, lurched mindlessly from side to side in the middle of the room, crashing into walls and furniture. Bawling, it grabbed blindly at anything that came to hand, sending more objects crashing to the floor. It had ripped a sleeve from its robes and a shoulder was completely bare.

As one, they froze and stared in horror.

"Who— _what—_ in Merlin's name, is that?" asked Tonks.

"That," said Sirius collecting himself, "is—or was—Rabastan Lestrange. I recognise the tattoos. That's one less Death Eater to deal with. But what the hell happened to him?"

"Quickly!" Kingsley pulled them back to attention and they ran on, skirting the baby-headed man and leaving him thrashing about behind. Once through a door at the other end of the room, Sirius drew a breath of relief at being away from the infernal ticking and chiming.

Another man wearing a Death Eater's hood was slumped on the floor leaning against a wall next to the doorway. He was weeping pitifully and nursing the mangled remains of what had been his hands.

Mad-Eye yanked the hood off. "Nott," he said dismissively. "Another one down."

Sirius trod on something soft. A finger. One of Nott's, presumably. He had seen much worse in Azkaban, and kicked it away without a second thought, looking around at the room in which they stood. Lit only by candles held in irregularly placed brackets and burning with chill blue flames, the ceiling was so high that the upper part of the space was lost in darkness. Row upon row of tall wooden racks stretched away as far as he could see. Each one held a multitude of shelves upon which were arranged glass spheres of apparently infinite sizes and colours. Some were thin and delicate and glowed as if lit from within, while others enclosed moving wisps of vapour. A number appeared thick and dull and lifeless. The Hall of Prophecies. Sirius had heard about it but never expected to see it.

Kingsley strode purposefully towards the other end of the hall and disappeared around a corner. The rest of them followed him into a mess of toppled and broken racks in a field of shattered glass. A few cloudy globes remained in place but most of the shelves here were empty. Every so often little puffs of smoke burst into the air and disembodied voices echoed unintelligibly around them.

.

Standing before a badly damaged rack, Kingsley tapped a yellowed label still fastened to an empty shelf. Sirius peered at it. _SPT to APWBD. Dark Lord and (?) Harry Potter_.

"Unless it's in this unholy mess," Kingsley gestured around, "Harry must have taken it. Let's hope he's still got it. But they've been and gone. Back to the entrance, everyone!"

Not watching where he was stepping, Sirius felt a sharp pop underfoot and a grey cloud erupted before him. Inside it was a disembodied mouth. Hypnotised, he could not tear his eyes away. The hoarse male voice sounded almost familiar, like someone from his childhood. It reminded him a bit of his uncle Alphard.

" _. . . For twelve years and for twelve years . . ."_ it said, ". . . _he will walk the Shadow Path. But if he answers to the one who calls the first time, another gate will open; and if he seeks his home the second time he may return . . . "_

Tonks grabbed his arm, breaking his trance. "Don't hang about, mate. Come on!"

They gathered in the entrance room once more. Kingsley seemed to be listening to his earring again. "They're in the Death Chamber." He pointed at Sirius, Remus and Alastor. "You three, through that door. Tonks, with me. Wands ready. On my word."

.

Simultaneously, all five of them readied their wands."Now!" shouted Kingsley and threw the two heavy doors open, bursting through onto the top level of a chilly, dimly lit tiered chamber, much like a theatre in the round. The tiers dropped steeply into a central well, in the middle of which, mounted on a dais, was a high stone arch which drew Sirius's attention from the melee which was taking place among the tiers.

Although he had never seen it, he knew what it was. Knew his own ancestors had been instrumental in bringing it to this deep place, and knew something of what was said to wait beyond. The carved stone archway, pitted and cracked, was ancient beyond memory. Tattered shreds of dark material hung inside it, drifting as if moved by a faint breeze—or by great heat.

.

He forced his attention back to the chamber trying to make sense of what was happening around him. Tonks had already engaged in combat with Lucius Malfoy who, unlike most of the other Death Eaters, was not wearing a mask. With an admirably efficient spell, she sent him spinning along one of the tiers before turning her attention to her aunt Bellatrix who was some way lower, near the arch. A masked Death Eater she hadn't noticed aimed his wand at her, but Sirius disarmed him easily with a yell of " _Expelliarmus!_

Kingsley was duelling two Death Eaters at once but seemed to be in control of the situation. Behind a pillar, Mad-Eye was fighting with someone Sirius could not see. He had no idea where Remus had gone.

Mechanically evaluating the progress of the battle, he searched desperately for any sign of Harry and caught sight of him below, near the dais, where a boy he recognised as Neville Longbottom was crawling along the floor. Sirius saw Harry throw himself to the ground behind Neville as a loud spell narrowly missed them, cracking the flagstones on the floor. Then, to Sirius's horror, he saw a large, masked Death Eater leap down and grab Harry from behind, his hands closing around the boy's throat.

Sirius vaulted desperately down the tiers towards them, but a faint sound instinctively made him look aside just in time to see a Death Eater fire a blast of light at him.

" _Protego!_ " Sirius spun and blocked the spell, countering with " _Confringo!_ " but the Death Eater dodged and the blast hit one of the tiers with a sharp crack, sending splinters of red hot granite slicing through the air. Risking a glance towards Harry, he saw that the two boys had disabled the Death Eater who had lost his mask. Macnair was yelling in agony with a hand clapped over one eye and blood running between his fingers. Sirius gave Harry the briefest nod as he passed and concentrated again on his opponent.

From somewhere off to the side, another spell hit the Death Eater he was fighting, sending him flying to the bottom of the chamber and sliding across the floor to lie still at the bottom of the dais. Sirius looked over to see Remus saluting with his wand. With a grin, he raised his own wand to his temple and ran back towards Harry.

Another unmasked Death Eater—the ruthless Antonin Dolohov—had Harry's friend in a helpless, tottering tangle. He had his wand trained on Harry who was holding the glass prophecy sphere precariously in his fingertips.

Terrified, Sirius thought Harry was finished, but the boy just managed to shield himself from the worst of the spell that shot towards him. Dolohov lifted his wand again.

As if wings had sprouted on his feet, Sirius launched himself through the air, knowing that if Dolohov dodged in time, he would crash on to the stone tiers and almost certainly put himself well and truly out of action. But Dolohov was not expecting such an unsophisticated assault and Sirius knocked him sideways, winding both of them. Dolohov recovered his balance almost immediately, and blocked the spell Sirius fired at him without difficulty. Gleefully recognising his attacker, he gave a sneering laugh.

"Well, well, Pretty-boy Black! Where is your protector now, dirty _pidaras_?"

Just a couple of weeks ago, the taunts would have sent Sirius into a blind, unpredictable rage, but now the words bounced off him. He grinned, and Dolohov looked taken aback.

"It's not me that needs protection now, Antonin! _Ferio!_ "

Dolohov parried with a poorly aimed, " _Crucio!_ "

Sirius leapfrogged to the next tier and blasted a stunning spell, but Dolohov twisted away, raising his wand to slash downwards. Then Harry shouted _"Petrificus Totalus!"_ and Dolohov, with an expression of astonished dismay, stiffened in paralysis and keeled over.

Sirius leaped down to Harry. "Nice one, mate!" Two spells sparked towards them from above, and he put his hand on Harry's head, pushing him out of the way, feeling the softness of his hair and the life beneath. So like James.

"You've got to get out of here, Harry! Bugger!" He ducked as a green flash only just missed him. He caught sight of Bellatrix dashing down the tiers and spotted Tonks' motionless body slumped between two tiers.

"Harry, take the prophecy, grab Neville, and run!" Wand pointed, he ran to meet his cousin. Jumping up on to the dais, he shouted _"Stupefy!"_ but his aim was off and it missed her.

She crowed with furious joy. "Oooh, Pwitty-boy Siwius! Come and get me Pwitty-boy!"

Standing before the stone arch, he was so close that he could hear voices coming from the other side of the tattered Veil and thought he heard James saying something. He wanted to stop: to listen. But there was no time. Bellatrix was aiming her wand at him.

It was like a game; they were children again, play-duelling in one of the long corridors of the house at Grimmauld Place. He laughed as he skipped playfully sideways and effortlessly ducked a flash of red light, retaliating with a neat " _Eludus!_ " that caught her off- balance.

"Come on, Bella, is that the best you can do?" He blew her a kiss and raised his wand to finish the job and . . .

. . . he heard someone shout his name. Not the whispering he could hear from behind the veil but a strong, clear summons from above. The voices behind him changed and whispered _'. . . blood; remember. . .'_ Quickly he looked up and for a split second thought he saw a grey-haired, bearded man up on the very top tier. The man leaped down towards him, light and agile, balancing on the stone benches. Sirius shivered uncontrollably.

No one was there. What a terrible time for someone to walk over his grave. The distraction had been fatal. Bellatrix had reached her wand.

.

 _Bellatrix_ , he thought. _My cousin, my blood. She wouldn't—_ Then her wand flashed again and everything turned red.

.

 _Is that how it happens?_ he thought in surprise, as his heart stopped and he fell backwards. Just a split second of hesitation. Something so easily avoided.

 _Remus_ , he thought. _Harry. James. Julia. I'm sorry._

.

.

* * *

.

Julia emerged from the staircase on Level Eight and cautiously scurried towards the main corridor. She had just edged past an open door and was by the lift when a vice-like grip on her shoulder and a voice in her ear made her freeze in terror.

"Look who we have here, where she has no business being. Our little Muggle. Some light relief. How very timely."

In the corner of her eye she saw a tall figure with a hood covering his face. But she did not need to see him to know it was Otus Yaxley. She could hear the smile in his voice as he poked his wand into her chin and whispered, " _Imperio._ " For a fraction of a second she fought the urge to drop to her knees but then she let her body go limp and slid to the floor in front of him, kneeling with her head bowed, staring at his finely tooled leather shoes. "Look up, Muggle bitch"—he grabbed her hair, yanking her head back—"and open your mouth. I've got something tasty for you." He reached into his robes.

There was a sharp clatter as the lift door opened and a thin, wild-eyed woman with dark, stained teeth emerged and screeched with manic laughter. "Put your bloody dick away, Yaxley!"

Julia had only seen the woman in pictures but she recognised Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Bella!" Yaxley protested, "your timing is abominable. Can't you see I'm busy?"

"We have more important things to do. We must get the prophecy from the Potter boy before the Dark Lord arrives. But Dumbledore is here and the traitor Black is dead."

Everything became still and quiet. The fear turned to pain. It could surely not be true, but a fury like nothing Julia had ever experienced ignited in her belly. It gave her the strength she needed to try out the self-defence move she had previously—and in a polite and restrained manner—practised only on a middle-aged but heavily built neighbour called Elaine. She dismissed the remnants of the Imperius curse and grabbed swiftly at the unprepared Yaxley's wand hand, using it to pull herself to her feet; and in the same move with all the speed and force she could muster, brought her knee up into his crotch. As Yaxley gave a high-pitched squeal and sank to the floor clutching at his vital parts, she snatched his wand and threw it as far along the corridor as she could.

Laughing scornfully, Bellatrix raised her own wand. Sickly green light flashed from it but Julia's fury burned with such intensity that she absorbed the curse almost without noticing. Bellatrix's face filled with horrified astonishment.

"Oh yes, you mad cow, you weren't expecting that, were you?" Putting another of her theoretical self-defence moves into action Julia jabbed Bellatrix in the face with her elbow and felt a most satisfying crunch. Bellatrix howled and reflexively put her hands to her face. Seizing Bellatrix's wand too, Julia sending it skittering along the floor after Yaxley's. For good measure she walloped Bellatrix hard across the head with the rucksack, knocking her over. The lift rattled again as it started to rise from the floor below

Yaxley was still curled up on the floor gasping. Without a shred of mercy, Julia kicked him between the legs again and he screamed like a pig at slaughter. Then as the lift started to open, she ran blindly, turning off down one corridor then another until she was quite lost.

Slowing to a walk she noticed blue sparks popping from the ends of her fingers. Her hair was standing up on end, and her heart was thudding as if it might fly from her chest. Shaking uncontrollably, she thought she might actually be about to die. She needed water. Feeling so terrible that she no longer cared if anyone saw her, she looked into one door after another, until at last she found a toilet. Ramming the bolt home, she dropped her bag, turned on the tap and plunged her head into the washbasin feeling the powerful charge she was carrying dissipate. Her heart slowed.

 _Sirius,_ she thought, _dead?_ No, it didn't make sense. It couldn't be more than an hour since he had left her up on Level Three. She concentrated on keeping her head under the running tap until the cold water streaming over her neck and face became painful, then she lay down on the floor resting her wet head on the rucksack. For some time she stayed there, absently scratching at the itchy spots that had developed on her neck and the backs of her hands, listening to shouting and footsteps running past outside. Once, someone knocked and turned the knob but Julia groaned loudly and the person on the other side of the door muttered an embarrassed apology and retreated.

.

Eventually she got up and retraced her steps until she was in familiar surroundings, then she headed for the Atrium and stepped into a scene of complete devastation. In shock she sat down on the dismembered golden arm of a centaur that lay on the ground amid the shattered remains of its own body. Hardly able to take it in, she surveyed the ruined Atrium. A few witches and wizards were weeping hysterically while others were stony faced with shock and fear. The now headless statue of the wizard that should have been at the centre of the fountain lay on its back, arms stretched up towards the ceiling. The polished floor was awash with water, and half a dozen goldfish flapped helplessly, suffocating in front of her. Not knowing what else to do she started collecting the slippery creatures in her hands and putting them back in the now perilously shallow pool. Then she sat down on the low wall surrounding the ruined fountain and wondered what to do next. Someone came and sat beside her, putting an arm round her. She looked up in joyful relief, but it was Remus. His face was streaked with dirt and blood.

"Remus?"

"I'm sorry, Julia. Sirius didn't make it."

She was confused. "Didn't make it where?"

Remus took her hand and shook his head wearily. "Julia, Sirius is dead."

An icy rock in her middle settled against her heart. She was numb and cold. "But he can't be," she explained. "He was fine when I left him. I want to see him."

Remus squeezed her hand tight."No, Julia, you can't. He fell behind the Veil."

"The Veil? But . . . then how do you know he's dead?"

"That's just how it is."

"No! You don't know that. No one knows!"

"Julia, please. Sirius is dead. He really is."

Julia remembered the first time she had seen Sirius, leaning casually against the ancient stove in his kitchen; and the last time she saw him, less than an hour ago, alive with the light of battle in his silver eyes. She remembered him lost in misery, and chasing a flock of pigeons into the morning sky, and laughing as she took his picture. Below her, above her, inside her.

Now Sirius was dead.

A howl of grief burst out in a flood of boiling tears. "It's my fault!" she wailed. "I brought him here! He said if I asked him not to go then he wouldn't. And I didn't ask! Remus, I couldn't ask that of him! But I should have!"

"Julia. Remus." They both turned to see Albus approaching. "Remus, I have to take Julia away now."

"Julia," said Remus standing up, "I wish you the very best in your life. I fear we won't meet again."

"Remus—what?"

He shook his head sadly. "I wish so many things had been different. Take care, Julia." He gave her another quick hug, turned, and hurried away without looking back.

"Julia," said Dumbledore, "we must get you back to Grimmauld Place without delay. Hold tight."

There was moment of deep, suffocating nausea, the world briefly turned inside out and then they were on the step of Number Twelve, and through the door. This time Julia knew there would be no great black dog to greet her, but she couldn't help looking up the empty stairs as if she might see him. A fresh wave of misery broke over her in terrible racking sobs. "I could have asked him to stay, Albus! I should have done, and then he would still be alive!"

Albus took hold of her shoulders firmly. "Julia, think about this. If Sirius had stayed here with you, then yes, he would still be alive now. But there is a high probability that one or more members of the Order—even one of the children—would have died. How do you think he would have taken that?"

After a few seconds she whispered brokenly,"He would have hated me for it."

"I believe in the course of time he would," said Dumbledore. "He was too fragile. And he understood, as I know you do, that the world at stake here is greater than any one person. Julia, you must be brave. Braver, perhaps, than you have ever been. We cannot stay here. With Sirius dead, the safety of our headquarters may be compromised. I need to know, did he give you anything from the house?"

"Oh. Yes, he did."

"Ah," the professor's voice was approving. "He had a sense of duty; he was just too headstrong. Will you get it for me?"

"But it's mine! He gave it to me!"

"I know he did, and it is indeed yours. I do not want to keep it, but there is something I need to do. Please make haste. Our time grows short."

Julia raced upstairs and retrieved the heavy enamelled egg from the bottom of the wardrobe where it was wrapped in the orange sweater. She hurried back to Albus who folded it into his robes. "You will have it again soon enough, my dear. In a few days you will find it in a desk in the cottage you have unexpectedly inherited. You will be travelling to it within the hour." He handed her an envelope.

She opened it. "A train ticket. To . . . Upper Layford? I don't even know where that is." She unfolded the letter and read it.

 _Prewett, Prewett and Strange: Solicitors._

 _Dear Ms Fenwick, It appears that you are the sole living relative and residuary legatee of Reginald Black Esquire, and therefore are the rightful owner of Layhill Cottage, Layhill, Staffordshire. You may collect the keys and deeds at your convenience from I. Prewett Esq, Mistletoe Cottage, Hillside Lane, Layhill._

"But this can't be right! I've never even heard of Reginald Black—" she looked at Albus, and the first glimmer of comprehension came to her. He wore an expression of great compassion.

" _No!_ Albus, please! Not my memories! Not my memories of Sirius! _Please!_ I promised him!" Realisation hit her. "He knew, didn't he? He knew you wouldn't let me remember. _"_

"Your knowledge puts you in grave danger now. Both of you."

"What? How did you . . . ?"

"I know many things Julia; some indeed I would rather not. Voldemort will want to know why Bellatrix's curse didn't work on you. You should be dead. If he found you, Julia, your ability to absorb magical energy would soon be overwhelmed."

"But I'm no threat to him!"

"I suspect he will not see it that way."

"Will I . . . see you again?"

Albus looked sad. "I fear not, Julia. The war with Voldemort and his Death Eaters will be long, hard fought, and bitter. He will take many casualties. But remember, Julia; only the living grieve. The dead feel no pain."

He lifted his wand and she bowed her head before it.

.

* * *

.

Julia shook her head to clear a momentary dizziness in the first light of a new day. Her cheeks were wet with tears. _How strange,_ she thought, aware of a faint wash of a deep but unexplained grief and unease. It must be pregnancy causing the peculiar mood swings. Glancing up the quiet street, she checked her pocket to make sure she had her train ticket and the solicitor's letter, and felt something flat and hard. Her little brass plaque. _You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps_. How could she have forgotten? She'd had it so long she couldn't recall how she had come by it. Why was it in her pocket?

She shrugged and put it back, hitched her rucksack up on to her shoulders and set off briskly for the station; nervous but excited about the new life waiting for her.

.


	22. Epilogue

.

It caused quite a stir in the antiques world when a previously unrecorded Faberge egg surfaced in a Staffordshire village. Found, it was said, by a woman clearing out a cottage she had recently inherited from a distant relative she had never even known.

After long and complicated appraisals by experts from all over the world, it was declared genuine, and a very fine work by the French artist. It sold for an undisclosed but vast amount to a private collector who preferred to remain anonymous.

 _Single mother, Julia Fenwick, 33,_ reported the papers; _said she was very happy to be able to provide a comfortable and secure future for her daughter from the proceeds of the sale. She would always be grateful to her great uncle Reginald Black and was very sorry she had never met him._

 _._

* * *

.

Julia had been living in Layhill Cottage for nearly ten years by the time she finally took the plunge and had the old wash house converted into a practical utility room and downstairs toilet and shower. It was a dark, cobwebby space she had never used for anything more than storing things that had no other place to go. Before the builders came in, she and Megan sorted the contents into piles. Bicycles and gardening tools for the new shed. Boxes and old newspapers for burning. Everything else to go to the tip.

"There's an old rucksack here," said Megan holding it out. "I think there's something inside."

"Oh no, Megan," said Julia. "You'll get filthy!" But it was too late, Megan had already unfastened the rusty buckle and emptied the bag on to the ground.

"A metal sign." Megan held the tarnished brass plaque out to show her mother. " _You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps._ " She laughed. "That's funny! Why don't you take it to Laybrook Court, Mum? You said the manager told you it's like a mad-house."

Julia smiled and took the little plaque. "Good idea."

"Whatever's this thing?" Megan was holding a flat, square plastic object with a metal disc in the middle.

"Oh! It's an old fashioned floppy disk," said Julia, looking at it in surprise. "I haven't seen one of those in years. Not much call for them anymore. I've no idea what's on it. Not much point keeping it, really."

"There's an old camera here too, Mum. It's still got a film in it. Why don't we get it developed? And this." Megan unrolled a long piece of fragile paper. "A dead flower. Wrapped in a shopping list. Only . . . it's not a shopping list, it's a list of names."

Julia scratched her neck. Her head was aching. "Throw it away," she said. "Put it on the bonfire pile."

.

But later on after Megan had gone to bed, Julia went outside and found the dead flower again. She threw the roll of paper back on the fire pile, but the crumbling flower she wrapped in a piece of tissue paper and put in the drawer of the display cabinet in her living room.

.

.

There were still a few places where you could get an old 35mm film developed, but when the envelope came back, it contained just one recognisable picture of a laughing, handsome, bearded man.

"Who's this, Mum?"

"Oh!" Julia was uncharacteristically confused and rubbed the back of her neck which was prickling oddly. "That's your father. I hardly knew him really. He died. Well . . . I think so anyway."

"He looks nice," said Megan. "He looks happy."

Julia gazed into Sirius's laughing grey eyes. '"Yes," she agreed, "yes, he does, doesn't he?"

.

* * *

.

On the day in late July when Megan finished at Layhill County Primary School, she came home with her school shirt covered in signatures and goodwill messages. "I'm going to keep it _forever!"_ she announced dramatically, "so I never forget all my friends."

"You'll be seeing most of them in September when you start at Upper Layford High," said Julia reasonably. "It's only six weeks away."

"I don't think so, Mum." Megan's grey eyes were bright with excitement. "Someone's coming to see me."

.

Julia had learnt long ago not to dismiss Megan's feelings, but both of them were shocked when hardly more than a minute later there was a brisk knock at the front door.

Albie started to bark.

.

.

 _Every ending is a beginning._

 _ **.**_

 _ **.**_

 _ **Author's note:** There is, (do I even need to say?) a sequel to this story. It's called 'Finding the Way Home' and it has recently had some extensive editing so even if you have read it before you might find a few changes_ _._

 _ **Thank you so much for reading!**_

 _ **.**_


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